by Alan Carter
But one connection did catch his eye. He made a call.
‘Yes?’
‘Matthew? It’s Philip Kwong.’
‘Uncle Phil. What can I do for you?’
‘Wondered if we might have a chat?’
‘Go ahead.’
‘Face to face. Where are you?’
‘Round at the Coogee place. Finalising a few details with the agent before the house goes on the market tomorrow.’
‘Maybe we could catch up there. Give me twenty minutes or so?’
‘Sure. No worries. Everything okay?’
‘Absolutely,’ said Cato.
A black bank of cloud hung out over the ocean as Cato signalled his turn right off Cockburn Road into the Port Coogee estate. Raindrops spattered the windscreen and wind buffeted the side of the Volvo. The seven o’clock news continued the last minute election reassurances: everything was going to be okay, really. The boats would be stopped and there would be no cuts to anything that middle Australia held dear. Vote 1 above the line for the Big Fluffy Bunny Party. Speaking of promises, promises, it occurred to Cato that he’d missed the deadline for the Major Crime job. So be it.
Leonidas Road was dark. Two of the streetlights were out or had never commenced operation. The pools of light from the remaining two were sickly and stagnant. Sand whipped across the road and tarpaulins flapped on the half-built shells of middle Australian dreams. Cato saw Matthew’s BMW parked in the driveway and pulled in across the back, blocking it in. Three doors down there was a car pulled up on the verge, a nondescript white sedan. Otherwise the street was deserted. The tradies had gone home, blinds had been drawn on those few scattered houses that were occupied. The rain was coming down steady and heavy. It must have been a night such as this when the Tans were dispatched from this life, mused Cato. The For Sale sign was already up. The front verge had been swept clean and there was no trace of the flowers and teddy bear shrine. Lights were on in the house. Cato knocked. No answer. He knocked again.
‘Matt?’
Nothing.
He pushed against the door. It was locked. He took out his mobile and rang Matt’s number. It went to Messagebank. But not before he heard two trills from inside, and then silence.
‘Matt?’
He knocked again, louder, slamming his hand on the woodwork. Nothing.
Rain ran down his face and the back of his neck. He shivered. There was a tall gate leading down a side path. Cato reached over and unlatched the gate, pushed it open and walked through. The movement triggered a sensor light. Cato decided it was time to bring out his gun. The wind caught the side gate behind him and banged it back onto its latch. The wind swirled, changing direction briefly and bringing with it the tang of cigarette smoke.
‘Matt? It’s Philip. I tried the front door and your phone. You there?’
‘Round here, mate. Out the back.’
Cato rounded the corner onto the back patio. There was Matt sitting at a table, sheltered from the wind and rain by roll-down transparent plastic screens. He was sharing a bottle of whisky and a smoke with Des O’Neill.
Des lifted a glass. ‘Join us, we’re celebrating.’ He noticed Cato’s gun. ‘Is that really necessary?’
Cato took in the scene. He relaxed and holstered his Glock.
‘That’s better,’ said O’Neill. ‘Pull up a chair.’
‘I didn’t realise you knew each other so well?’
‘Why wouldn’t we?’ said Des. ‘I’ve been a friend of the family for quite a few years now.’
‘That’s right,’ said Matt. ‘Round about the time you and Dad started going your separate ways, Des filled the gap. Sort of like a godfather to me since then, eh Des?’
‘Cheers to that,’ said Des.
Matt offered Cato a whisky. Feeling dangerous, he accepted. ‘So what’s the occasion?’
‘Me and Lily got engaged. We put an offer on the apartment at Leighton Beach, view to die for.’ They clinked glasses. Matt swept an arm taking in the property. ‘And Uncle Des here reckons he can get me a quick sale on this place.’
Uncle Des, Uncle Phil. One big happy family.
‘Let me guess,’ said Cato. ‘A mystery Chinese buyer?’
‘Spot on,’ said Des, meeting Cato’s eye. ‘Queuing up, they are. Thing is, we look at these places with our snob glasses on and we see an overpriced shoebox in an overheated market. But it’s all relative.
In Shanghai you can pay over a million for a twentieth floor one-bedroom garret that I wouldn’t put an asylum seeker into. This, my friend, is a steal, the height of luxury. Ocean views, marina, paradise.’
‘Busted,’ said Cato, grinning. ‘I’m one of those snobs.’
‘Here’s to you then, you old snob.’
They clinked glasses again. The whisky was going down well, an old, smooth expensive one by the look and taste of it.
‘What about you?’ said Cato to Des. ‘You celebrating too?’
‘Yep,’ interrupted Matt, exuberance and alcohol getting the better of him. ‘Big offer from China this arvo. Everyone’s a winner, eh, Uncle Des?’
Des smiled benevolently but Cato noticed a tightening of the knuckles around the whisky glass.
‘Cambridge Gardens?’ said Cato.
A nod. The temperature seemed to have dropped, and it was already pretty cold.
Matt noticed it too, he exchanged a glance with Des O’Neill. ‘So what was it you wanted to talk to me about, Philip?’
No more Uncle Phil.
Wind tore at the drop screen and rain hammered on the colorbond pagoda roof.
‘I was wondering about a couple of phone calls between you and Des here in the forty-eight hours preceding the murders of your parents and siblings.’
‘What about them?’
‘Well, according to the records, you don’t appear to have much phone contact with Uncle Des usually. There’s nothing in the whole month preceding. Then two on the Saturday, the day before the murders.’
Matt turned to Des with a quizzical look. ‘Ring a bell with you?’
‘Yeah, sure it does. I had some tickets to the footy, wondered if you could use them.’
‘That’s right.’ Matt nodded. ‘But footy’s not my thing.’
‘And the second call?’
‘That would have been me ringing Des back to say no thanks.’
‘No. The second call was also from Des to you. Late afternoon. After the footy.’
Matt shook his head. ‘Sorry, can’t remember. Why the interest?’
In for a penny.
‘After the first call from Des, you then made four calls over the next few hours to your mum. After the second one from Des, you called your mum again, three more times, the last one just before midnight.’ Cato chose his words carefully. ‘I always knew you were a bit of a mummy’s boy but seven calls, that’s a bit keen isn’t it?’
A frown. ‘Nasty. That’s not like you, Uncle Phil. Mum was a bit crook that weekend. I was checking how she was going. Des’s other call? I must have mentioned Mum being crook. He was showing concern. That do you?’
Good answer. Time to crank things up a notch.
‘Are you getting a cut from Uncle Des’s Chinese deal?’
Matt couldn’t help himself. ‘Sure am. That right, Des?’
Cato smiled. ‘Des O’Neill. The Orphan’s Friend.’
‘You stupid little bastard.’
‘What?’ said Matt.
Cato had his eyes on Matt when Des grabbed the whisky bottle and swung it into Cato’s face. There was an explosion of glass and pain and his eyes filled with blood. He wondered if he’d been blinded. He felt a powerful hand grip the back of his neck and force his head down to the table. Another hand slipped the Glock out of its holster.
Cato felt the muzzle press into the base of his skull. ‘It’s all going wrong, isn’t it, Des?’ said Cato.
‘Does this guy ever shut up?’
‘Des, mate? What are you doing?’ Matt was out of his depth.
‘Matt doesn’t know, does he, Des?’
The gun barrel nudged in tighter.
‘Know what?’ said Matt.
‘Nothing, he’s just trying to wind us up. Drive a wedge. Don’t fall for it.’
‘So Des didn’t mention his business partnership with the bloke who murdered your family?’
The gun barrel whipped across the back of his head. Cato nearly blacked out. He wanted to. Knew he couldn’t. Mustn’t.
‘It’s over, Des. The killing has to stop. You have to give it away. Joyce wouldn’t want this, she’s going to need you over these coming months. She’s not long for this world is she?’
‘What would you know?’
‘You were part of it?’ Matt shook his head, stepping closer to Des. ‘You knew that was going to happen?’
‘Kwong’s stirring. Don’t listen to him, Matt. Please.’
‘What’s Des giving you, Matt? Ten per cent, twenty?’
‘Kwong, shut it. I’ll kill you if I have to.’
‘You will have to, Des. And that won’t save you. It’s finished.’
‘At least I won’t have to listen to your fucking know-it-all whine.’
‘It’s less, isn’t it Matt. What? Five per cent? But it doesn’t matter anyway because it’s five per cent of nothing. The deal is dead.’
‘Bullshit. He got a text. He showed it to me.’
‘Three, four weeks. The Lis will be in front of a firing squad. The Chinese authorities have decided enough is enough: assets confiscated, business empire broken up. They’re history.’ Cato felt a relaxing of the grip on his neck. Des O’Neill listening. ‘I’m sorry, Matt. No mystery Chinese buyer for this place. No nest egg to help set you and Lily up. Nothing.’
There was a stillness. The wind seemed to drop. The rain eased.
Cato heard his gun go click.
36
Saturday, September 7th.
Des O’Neill was content to be represented by the Legal Aid lawyer. She was an old acquaintance of Cato’s: Amrita Gupta, seven months pregnant and radiantly happy about it.
‘November,’ she beamed.
‘Congratulations,’ said Cato.
He meant it. Outside the wind still snapped and the rain spat but spring really had sprung. Birth, rebirth, life, all worth celebrating. The click he’d heard last night was Des O’Neill putting the Glock into safety before laying it on the table.
Des necked the remains of his whisky. ‘Fuck it, I’ve had enough.’
‘Des?’ Cato had said, rubbing his neck in relief.
‘I can’t do this to Joyce. Leave her drowning in other people’s blood.’
Des and Matt had a cup of tea while they waited for the paddy wagons to come and take them away. ‘Pity about that whisky,’ said Matt.
Cato had used a towel in the bathroom to mop the gash on his forehead where the bottle had connected.
Now Matt was having breakfast a few doors down and consulting with his lawyer Henry Hurley. He could wait. Des was the one with most of the jigsaw pieces in his pocket. They were lawyered up, announced on the tapes and ready to roll. Des and Amrita on one side of the table, Chris Thornton and Cato on the other.
‘Where do you want to start?’ said Des amicably.
‘How about the beginning?’
‘That depends on what you think I’ve done and when.’
They could only now begin the forensic accountancy on what might have happened with young Benji Strickland’s trust fund but Cato suspected it was being milked by Des to help fund his dealings with Yu Guangming. But while it remained guesswork he couldn’t go there, yet.
‘Tell me about you and Yu Guangming.’
‘By the time I met Yu, Francis was already in trouble. He’d been skimming, overpricing the deals to help out the poor cockies. His Chinese mates knew, thought he was an idiot, but it was small change to them. Usually ten to fifty grand here and there so they indulged him. Until Strickland.’
‘That was three years ago, right?’
‘Thereabouts.’
They’d nail the details along the way in subsequent repeat interviews. Cato was happy to go for an open account for now, to maintain flow. ‘Why was the Strickland deal different?’
‘He overloaded it big time. Valued the farm more than double what it was worth. His backers went ape when they found out. Thought it lacked respect.’
‘You told them?’
‘Had to, otherwise they would have come after me as his partner.’
‘So?’
‘Yu Guangming was working for Li at the time. Chief headkicker. He was sent over to have a discrete word with Francis. Old Li wanted a bit of distance from doing the nasties.’
‘And you became acquainted?’
‘He was a charmer. I was at a barbie at the Tans, they were still in Bicton at the time, and he was all over Genevieve like a rash. She didn’t seem to mind too much either. Yu let Francis know he’d have to either reimburse them from the newly set-up Strickland trust fund or make up the difference himself.’
‘But he didn’t want to touch the trust fund? He downsized, sold Bicton and moved to Coogee instead.’
‘Yep, and he told Yu Guangming that was his plan. Maybe that’s what gave the bloke ideas above his station, or maybe not. He seemed cocky and ambitious anyway.’
‘Go on.’
‘He invited me to lunch. He told me about this development opportunity in Shanghai. Worth zillions for relatively small outlay.’
‘Cambridge Gardens?’
O’Neill snorted bitterly. ‘First rule of commerce. If something seems too good to be true, it probably is.’
‘You wanted in and borrowed from the trust fund to make it happen?’
‘No doubt your bean counters will dig it all out in time. The trust fund was a small part of it, yeah, but only in passing to help with cashflow. I did repay the loan when I disbursed the fund after the boy died.’
Cato could only ask. ‘Did you have anything to do with the boy’s death?’
‘No. Why would I?’ A shake of the head, how could Cato think such a thing? ‘It served no purpose. The deal was on by then and I was able to repay the loan. No dramas.’
So the Strickland boy’s death would remain an unsolved hit and run. Maybe just some bloke with two much grog still in his system after a big night out. Guilty, scared, waiting for a knock on the door. Over the following few years Yu Guangming established his own business empire, with the help of his then girlfriend Phoebe Li, and fed deals to O’Neill while sabotaging Francis’s work with Old Man Li. Phoebe was the main saboteur.
‘Motive?’ said Cato.
‘She didn’t like the strong bond between her dad and Francis. And I think she was going through her rebellious phase. Flirting with dad’s rival, doing deals behind Daddy’s back. She was in on Cambridge Gardens for a while, part-funding our purchase of it and jacking up the pressure on Daddy for a big buyout to save his bigger deal.’
‘But she finally came down on the side of the family business?’
‘No choice. Filial daughter and all that. Besides there were big names attached to the main deal, party figures, military brass. They got wind of what she was doing. Quietly brought her into line.’
Unit 61398, or a freelance offshoot.
‘You and Yu Guangming were out in the cold?’
A rueful smile. ‘But holding on. We had too much invested by then and Joyce’s cancer was back with a vengeance.’ O’Neill’s eyes clouded over. ‘I couldn’t back out, I needed the money too much. No super or shit like that. We dug our heels in.’
‘Meantime, what was happening with Francis?’
In a tailspin. Phoebe’s sabotages, culminating in the disastrous FIRB ruling that cost her father many millions, piled business pressure on Francis. Domestically the impact was huge. With the exception of young Joshua, the whole family turned on Francis for selling Bicton and taking them to Port Coogee and a generally less lavish lifestyle than they had b
ecome used to. Matthew moved out and kept on nagging his parents for money because he was too useless to organise his own life. Genevieve lost interest in her husband and began to look elsewhere, particularly at Yu Guangming who was in town more frequently on his own business these days. And sixteen year old Emily used her raging hormones and bitter teenage rebellion to maximum effect. Moving on from her bogan boyfriend Zac and turning her attentions full beam on her mother’s lover.
‘Yu was just playing her, though. Incurable flirt. Still he must have thought all his Christmases had come at once.’ O’Neill grinned. ‘Dirty old bastard.’
Amrita Gupta was finding it hard to hide her distaste.
‘And then things took a turn for the worse,’ said Cato.
‘Much worse,’ conceded O’Neill.
Marjorie Hutchens was eating a hedgehog slice while she worked through another gruelling Fifty Shades sex scene. Puh-lease she thought to herself, flicking crumbs off her chest, just smack him back.
‘You still reading that? I thought you’d be finished.’
‘Fuck me,’ she said. ‘You’re awake.’
Hutchens smiled weakly through the bandages. ‘Maybe later, love. Can I have a drink of water first?’
‘They were trying to find a way around having to pay us for Cambridge Gardens. They’d even coopted Francis, told him I was working behind his back. Told him I was the saboteur instead of Phoebe. He believed it, things were a bit fraught between us by then.’ O’Neill sipped some water from a bottle. ‘We wanted two hundred million: dollars that is. We’d dropped it down to a hundred by the time the crunch came. True it was still three times its real value but it was still just tea money to the Lis.’ He picked at a gouge in the desk top. ‘I think Old Man Li would have gone for it but Phoebe was digging her stilettos in. She’d got word about Yu’s dalliances with the Tan girls. The green-eyed monster had reared.’
‘Stalemate,’ said Cato. ‘So what changed?’
‘Francis had been going through some old papers. Trying to work out what went wrong with the FIRB decision on the Great Southern property, trying to redeem himself with Li. He must have come across the old documentation on the Strickland trust fund. He worked out I’d temporarily milked it. It offended his sense of propriety.’