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Bad Seed

Page 11

by Alan Carter


  Cato took out his gun and Thornton did the same.

  ‘Lily?’

  He edged up the stairs, hugging the wall, half-crouched, eyes straining for any sudden movement, every nerve jangling. Blood rushed through his ears, he wanted it to stop, he wanted to be able to hear anything, everything. There was a rustle and scrape, a patter of steps and the poodle was at the top of the stairs, yapping and growling. Its yellow bow was askew, teeth were bared. There was blood around the muzzle.

  ‘Can we shoot it?’ whispered Thornton.

  ‘Not yet.’

  There was a groan. Low, animalistic. It wasn’t the dog.

  Cato took the last few steps quickly and followed the blood trail into the bedroom. Lily was on the floor, kimono askew. She’d been badly beaten, punched and kicked. But she was alive and there were no signs of any other weapon being used. Her face was pulpy, hair matted with blood, some teeth were missing. Cato could see them on the carpet. Thornton was on his mobile summoning assistance.

  ‘Who was it, Lily? Who did this?’

  She reached a hand up to him, a varnished nail had split and torn away from the finger. Tears mingled with the blood on her face.

  ‘Did Matt do this to you?’

  No answer. The hand dropped back to the carpet. Cato put an alert out for Matt anyway as an ambulance siren wailed in the distance.

  DI Pavlou wasn’t best pleased by the turn of events. If nothing else, it took the shine off her Thomas Li theory which had been building nicely. Now it was reverting back to a sordid little domestic starring Matthew Tan – Bad Seed.

  ‘So where is the little shit?’

  ‘Don’t know. We’ve got people out chasing him down. We’re checking known associates, usual hangouts, et cetera. The geeks are monitoring his phone and bank cards. The airports have been alerted. Every mobile patrol will be looking for him. Short of that…’ Cato shrugged.

  ‘Media?’

  ‘Along the hall, waiting for your word. Hannah’s ready to brief you.’

  She stood up and grabbed her phone and specs from the desk. ‘Next time you get a juicy little lead I want to know first, not last. Right now I’m still tossing up whether or not to have you suspended.’

  ‘The lead only came to light late this morning through Chris Thornton’s diligence,’ said Cato. ‘You had made it clear that I was responsible for the Matthew Tan side of the inquiry. You’ve shown little interest in anything except Thomas Li.’

  Pavlou was half out of her door. She stopped, came back, closed it. ‘Pull your head in, Kwong.’ She let out a ragged breath, gathering her thoughts. ‘You know there’s a bit of a pattern developing in your behaviour: sabotaging Lara’s work, undermining mine. I thought you were better than that, Philip.’

  ‘Boss?’

  A curl of the lip. ‘Blokes in the workplace. Over the years I’ve found they come in all shapes and sizes – buffoons, cavemen, gimps.’ A locking of eyes with Cato. ‘And passive-aggressives. They come. They go.’ She opened her office door again. ‘I’ll let you front the media today, mate. Take one for the team.’

  Hutchens heard the news on the radio as he drove to his rendezvous with David Mundine. He allowed himself a grim smile. So it looked like it was the Tan boy all along. It was sunny with a cold gusty wind shaking the trees and a harsh brightness to the winter daylight. Mundine wanted to meet him at J. B. O’Reilly’s pub in West Leederville. Mid-afternoon, and the place was dark and dead. A couple of diehards grimaced into their pints. Mundine was sitting in a corner under a wall of Disneyfied Irish paraphernalia: street signs, shamrocks, sepia photos of rebels, diddle-eye fucking oh.

  Mundine shook his nearly empty glass at Hutchens. ‘Guinness.’

  Hutchens ordered one and a Kilkenny for himself and returned to the table. ‘You can’t do that shit, mate.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Phone my home and swear at my wife.’

  ‘Sensitive is she? Well brought up?’

  Hutchens looked around the room, measured up some consequences. ‘If I killed Sinclair what’s to stop me going that one step further?’

  ‘Are you threatening me, Mr Hutchens?’

  ‘You’re a useless junkie waste of space. A fuck-up. No wonder Sinclair took you as a girlfriend. Some people are born victims.’

  ‘That right?’

  ‘You know it is. Now piss off and leave me and my family alone before you get badly hurt.’

  Mundine flicked through his iPhone, found what he was looking for, a photo of Hutchens’ oldest daughter. ‘Melanie, isn’t it? Lovely girl. Just moved into that nice place in Subiaco.’

  ‘I’m going to kill you.’

  ‘That bloke of hers goes away a lot doesn’t he? Filmmaker or something. Always out …’ his fingers curled in air quotes, ‘on location.’

  Hutchens leaned across the table and grabbed Mundine’s throat. Glasses went flying. The barman, an Irish backpacker, wanted them to cut it out. ‘Fuck off,’ Hutchens said to him over his shoulder. He was about to draw back his fist for a punch when he felt a prick of pain in his left side, level with his heart. He looked down. A long blade was poised to enter his rib cage. A trickle of blood spreading on his shirt.

  ‘You’re right, Mr Hutchens,’ Mundine rasped. ‘Some people are born victims.’ Hutchens released his grip on Mundine’s throat. The blade stayed there. ‘You’ve just been owned by a junkie fuck-up, Mr H. What does that make you?’ Mundine felt around for Hutchens’ wallet. Found it, emptied it, kept the money and the family snapshots. ‘My price just went up. You’ll be hearing from me.’

  And he was gone.

  The barman put some more diddle-eye music on the CD and asked Hutchens if he wanted another drink while they waited for the police to arrive. ‘On the house, sir.’

  ‘Cancel the police,’ said Hutchens, mopping his bloody shirt with a paper napkin. ‘Just a misunderstanding.’

  It was dark by the time Cato got home. Rain dotted the windows as he defrosted a tub of pesto in the microwave and set some pasta to boil. There was still no sign of Matthew Tan even though his face and description was now on all major news outlets. Cato was just sitting down to his pesto when the front doorbell rang.

  It was Jake.

  ‘Hi. Come in.’ Cato tried to hug him but was rebuffed. His son was almost the same height as him now, his voice deeper, and there was an outcrop of acne at the corner of the mouth. It complimented the livid nail gun scar on his cheek. ‘Everything okay?’

  The boy slumped at the kitchen table as Cato flicked on the kettle. ‘No.’

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘I want to come and live with you.’

  This was news. Last week he couldn’t even be bothered to come over for a visit at the weekend. ‘Why?’

  ‘Does there need to be a reason? You’re my dad.’

  ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Nothing. Just sick of home that’s all.’

  Cato slid a mug of tea towards his son and plonked a bottle of milk beside it. He waited, not filling the silence.

  ‘Simon’s a dickhead. I hate him.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He just is. Always on my back. Sticking his nose in.’

  ‘Jake, just get to the point. What is it that’s really pissing you off?’

  A glint and the hint of a smile hidden by the tea mug. ‘He doesn’t like my mates, wants to stop me seeing them.’

  ‘Why would he do that?’

  ‘He reckons they’re a bad influence.’

  ‘Are they?’

  ‘No. They’re just mates.’

  ‘He must have his reasons.’

  A flare in the eyes. ‘Must he? Maybe he’s just imagining shit. He just needs to get a life.’

  ‘Imagining what?’

  A shrug. ‘Ask him.’

  ‘I’m asking you.’

  An exasperated sigh. ‘He reckons we’re doing drugs and stuff.’

  ‘Are you?’

  ‘No.’


  This could take all night. ‘I’ll have a chat with your mum.’

  ‘Good luck. She’s in babyland, boring everybody with her pregnancy.’

  ‘Feeling left out?’

  ‘Yeah, Dad. Nobody’s child. So can I move in here with you?’

  ‘Like I said, I’ll have a chat with your mum.’

  ‘Don’t bother.’ Jake slurped from his mug and banged it back down on the table. ‘I get the picture.’

  14

  Wednesday, August 14th.

  DI Hutchens’ door opened and Cato was summoned with a wave.

  ‘How’s your passport? Up to date?’

  ‘Far as I know, yeah.’

  ‘Nip home and bring it in. Urgent. We need to get you a visa.’

  ‘Maybe you could start at the beginning?’

  ‘You’re Shanghai-bound my boy. Special invitation.’

  ‘Li? He’s Major Crime’s job.’

  ‘He is indeed but he’s only agreed to be interviewed by them if you’re along for the ride.’ Hutchens allowed himself an evil chuckle. ‘Pissed off Pavlou, no end.’

  Cato wasn’t aware he’d made much of an impression on Tommy Li that night at the airport. Or was that the point? Li had chosen him because he could; it was a way of putting DI Pavlou in her place. Cato’s focus was Matthew Tan, he needed to find him. A pawn in somebody’s power game? He didn’t need this right now and said as much to his boss.

  ‘Four or five days they reckon. Home by Tuesday at the latest. I’ll keep things ticking over here, I’m not due back at the Inquiry until a week Monday.’ Hutchens ushered Cato towards the door. ‘Loosen up, mate. Sit in on the interview. Buy some souvenirs. Come home. Gig of the year.’

  Hutchens seemed bright and unflappable. Almost manically so. ‘Everything okay with you, boss?’

  ‘Never better, mate.’

  Cato didn’t buy it. Hutchens’ face was pink and tight. The voice was a half-note higher like air escaping from a balloon. ‘You seem, I don’t know, a bit wound up?’

  Hutchens ushered him through the door. ‘Off you go, now.’

  Apparently there was no way out. Cato went home and found his passport. He’d tried a few times to reach Jake but the boy’s mobile was turned off. He sent a text: sorry if I was grumpy last night, lets talk more. That afternoon, while he waited for compelling leads on Matthew Tan, he googled Shanghai and got the gist – Paris or Whore of the Orient – depending on your point of view. Early Christian missionaries had formed the opinion that if God didn’t smite Shanghai then he owed Sodom and Gomorrah an apology. Population twenty-three million – the whole of Australia crammed into one city. In addition it often had smog to die for and sixteen thousand dead pigs had floated down the Huangpu River back in March. Oh, and a new strain of chicken flu had killed around forty people in the last few months. Great. Pollution and calamity on an Old Testament scale.

  ‘Can’t I just sit in on Skype?’ he’d whined after handing over his passport and bringing Hutchens up to date.

  ‘It’s all about face, mate, you should know that. And Li wants your face, present, in the room. Look, flu-schmu, you’ve got more chance of catching mesothelioma with all the devil’s dust they’ve been finding around the old office these last few months. Just stay clear of pork and chook and you’ll be right.’ A reassuring pat on the shoulder. ‘Tofu. That’s the gear.’

  Hutchens would be glad to have Cato out of the way for a few days. He was torn between murdering David Mundine and capitulating to him. Either way, he didn’t want Cato’s saintly presence haunting him, judging either his evil intent or his vile weakness. Mundine was getting the better of him. What was happening?

  You’ve just been owned by a junkie fuck-up, Mr H. What does that make you?

  What precisely was the threat here? Mundine claimed to know what had happened between him and Peter Sinclair that night and wanted money to keep quiet. Further than that, he was displaying all the signs of being a stalking little control freak and had issued veiled threats to physically harm Hutchens’ family. The two didn’t seem to go together. Money for silence was a straightforward enough motive but the added antipathy towards Hutchens and his brood? That was crazy enough to derail the blackmail scheme. So which was most important to Mundine? If Hutchens paid up there was every reason to believe that the problem wouldn’t go away.

  He needed to separate the issues and deal with them differently. Mundine could stand up at the Inquiry and claim to have seen something that night but without corroborating evidence it surely counted for very little. So what did he have? What did he know?

  On the matter of the personal menaces there were witnesses at J. B. O’Reilly’s who would have seen Mundine threaten him with the blade. But they would also have seen Hutchens grab his throat first. Mundine, the victim of sexual abuse and a key witness at the Inquiry, versus Hutchens a thuggish corner-cutting cop with questions to answer. How would that look? At this stage there would be little mileage in making any official complaints about Mundine’s actions. But Hutchens did know people, hard men who could have a quiet word. Was he prepared to go down that path? He recalled the pic of Melanie on Mundine’s phone. Hell, yes.

  His phone buzzed.

  10K cash, leave with barman @ JBs by Friday

  He texted back asking what he would get in return.

  Peace of mind

  PART 2

  15

  Thursday, August 15th – Friday, August 16th.

  The Qantas flight touched down at Pudong International Airport just after 10 p.m. Cato had spent most of the long day and two flights sandwiched between Lara in the window seat and James Blond in the aisle – the seating arrangements were no doubt DI Pavlou’s last-minute revenge. James Blond had played Call of Duty on his games console, twitching furiously with each kill and robbing Cato of any sleep. When she wasn’t squeezing past for an excessive number of toilet visits, Lara had snapped on a blindfold, plugged in her earphones, and stayed AWOL. Cato had snuck a glance at her engagement ring while she dozed. Lara in love? Good luck to her, she was certainly less abrasive to be around. Cato wondered if the same could be said for him.

  Tommy Li had specified the three underlings or nothing, and he got his way – he was under no obligation to return to Perth for interview. Of the three, Cato was the senior officer, so ostensibly he was the boss. Was that another one of Li’s little games, arrange it so the Chinese guy is in charge of the visiting cops? Either way, it was still Lara who held the paperwork and Pavlou’s list of questions.

  An immigration officer had studied Cato’s passport for longer than felt necessary before firing off a stream of Mandarin at him.

  ‘What?’ said Cato.

  The official looked at him in disgust. ‘Tourist or business?’

  Cato assumed that the class of visa in his passport and the boxes he’d ticked on the form made it clear enough. The official was interrupted by a rap on his cubicle rear window and the appearance of a more senior-looking colleague accompanied by a tall Westerner in a Hawaiian shirt. More words exchanged, the Westerner seemed to be fluent in Chinese. They were waved through.

  ‘Rory Driscoll.’ The tall stranger stuck out a hand for shaking.

  ‘Philip Kwong,’ said Cato.

  ‘AKA Cato?’

  ‘Philip should do it – for now.’

  Driscoll had the look of a footy player turned commentator: plenty of teeth and grooming but a mongrel never far from the surface. He shared a manly handshake with James Blond and upped the wattage on the smile for Lara. They jumped into Driscoll’s car, Cato taking the spare front seat and the two juniors in the back.

  ‘Perth? Sydney? Melbourne? Where do you call home?’ said Cato, to make conversation.

  ‘Warnambool. Gunditj mob. The wild west of Victoria,’ said Driscoll. He broke into a chuckle. ‘You’ve got to admit, mate, it was funny.’

  ‘What?’ said Cato.

  ‘You weren’t expecting an Aborigine to be the Chinese interpreter for a b
loke called Kwong who can’t speak a fucking word.’ He slapped his thigh and roared.

  Cato found himself grinning. Then laughing. A lot.

  ‘Fluent in Mandarin. Impressive,’ said Lara. ‘It doesn’t seem like an easy language to learn.’

  Driscoll studied her in the rear-view. Looking for signs he was being patronised? ‘I can also speak half a dozen Aboriginal languages, fluent Bahasa and Tagalog, passable Japanese, and you should hear my Pidgin. Awesome.’

  No reply. Cato glanced over his shoulder. Lara looked deep in thought.

  ‘I was brought up to believe that if you go through someone else’s country you need to ask their permission, pay your dues, and try to learn a little of their language and culture. You never assume a divine right to be there.’ Driscoll’s gaze drifted over to James Blond in the other back seat. ‘It’s about respect. That right, brother?’

  James yawned. ‘Sure. Whatever.’

  ‘I can see already you guys are going to go down a storm in Shanghai.’ He closed the conversation by switching on some music. The Gipsy Kings.

  Music aside, they drove in tired and companionable silence along an elevated expressway. It was bland, as most airport roads are, but still an improvement on the tawdry ribbon of fast-food barns and no-tell motels on the way out to Perth International. Lara had tried asking a few questions, like who the hell was Driscoll anyway, but was met with a smile and the promise of a full briefing first thing tomorrow.

  ‘You guys are too stuffed and won’t take anything in right now. As my nan used to say, “I never boil me cabbage twice.”’

  They crossed the Huangpu River but it was too dark for Cato to see if there were any dead pigs in it. My name is Legion, for we are many. They were dropped at a hotel in a city of a million brightly lit tower blocks. Cato noticed a bilingual street sign as he stepped out of the car into the humid night: Nanjing Road. According to Driscoll it was about ten minutes walk to the Bund – that way, he thumbed in the direction. He gave them his business card and wished them goodnight. They all had neighbouring rooms on the nineteenth floor. Cato went into his and fell straight asleep.

 

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