Getting Warmer (13 page)

The City of Fremantle sits within the Aboriginal cultural region of Beeliar. Its Noongar name is Walyalup, the place of crying, and the local people are called Whadjuk. The Whadjuk used to hold their funeral rites here: the deceased would be buried in the sand dunes and the singing and mourning would start so that the dead could go on their next journey into the spirit world. Jake had told Cato all about it last night after another hug, a reviving Milo, and a ‘Chopsticks’ duet on the piano. It had been part of his research for some homework – ‘My Town’. So Fremantle had always been a place for crying and funerals. It figured, thought Cato, particularly the last few weeks.

Cato was glad to have the office to himself. He was also unexpectedly glad to have some work to occupy him. Jane had picked up Jake, and Cato found a moment to give her a potted version of what passed between them. Relief softened her features, filled her eyes.

‘I thought it was about Simon.’

‘Not specifically, no. He just wants what he can’t have and he thought if he said that, then the sky would fall in.’

‘Poor little bugger.’

‘Yep.’

She’d given Cato a hug and left. It was the first connection and warmth between them in many months. He realised he’d missed it. He couldn’t deliver on what Jake wanted but at least he now knew that his son still liked snot jokes. Cato was beginning to feel like a parent again for the first time in a long while.

Shellie Petkovic crowded into his thoughts: she’d had parenthood brutally snatched away from her. Cato switched on his computer. He flipped open his wallet and plucked out the post-it with Hutchens’
access code. It was meant to authorise him to dig the dirt on Colin Graham on his boss’s behalf but it would also enable him to tiptoe through Hutchens’ own career without tripping any alarms in the system. Cato could now check, one last time, if there was anything in the Hutchens–Wellard relationship that might help him make more sense of the undercurrents in this case.

He navigated his way in. The file recorded, in dry terse prose, Hutchens’ rise through the ranks from police academy, through time on the streets in uniform, country postings, various investigation branches as a detective, and his early successes and promotions in the Armed Robbery Squad under Andy Crouch. These, according to Crouch, were the early days of Hutchens’ dealings with Gordon Francis Wellard. Were those early successes and promotions due to him being a good cop under a good mentor like Crouch? Or did luck come in the form of Wellard and, if so, at what price?

Case one. Four TAB hold-ups during a wintry fortnight in July, the perp wielding a sawn-off to relieve the bookies of over half a million in total. During the fourth hold-up, in the northern suburb of Balcatta, the duty manager decides to have a go and gets the gun barrel shoved in his teeth. He shits himself before being clubbed senseless. After a tip-off, Hutchens, Crouch and a heavily armed team lie in wait for the fifth TAB hold-up in Malaga. After an exchange of fire they nab their man. He is wheeled away on a stretcher with gunshot wounds to the upper legs. Detective Constable Michael Hutchens is commended for his bravery in confronting the armed gunman and acting quickly to protect the safety of the public and his colleagues. A coded reference number was given for the informant but when Cato tried to access the name he was denied. So even Hutchens was locked out of
that
level of the system. Cato wrote the reference number down and pressed on.

Case two. Nine months later. Newly promoted off-duty Detective Senior Constable Hutchens apprehends a youth holding up a twenty-four hour convenience store in Belmont: weapon of choice, a blood-filled syringe. Another commendation notes it was pure good luck that he happened to be there at 2.45 in the morning given that he wasn’t working or living anywhere near Belmont at the time.
And so it went on. From Detective Senior Constable to Detective Sergeant. Sometimes tip-offs, sometimes fortune, sometimes good coppering, and often just plain criminal stupidity. Sometimes that same informant reference number and sometimes not.

On to Detective Senior Sergeant Hutchens and then Inspector and the spectacular screw-up on an innocent man framed for murder that led to Hutchens’ posting to Albany, and Cato’s exile to Stock Squad. The files contained nothing specific to link Hutchens and Wellard except the same coded reference that may or may not be him.

So what qualified Gordon Wellard to be Hutchens’ informant? His criminal history was tied up in petty drug offences, assault, domestic violence, rape. How would he have the inside dirt on upcoming armed robberies? Something nagged at Cato. Andy Crouch on big brother, Kevin.
He was a hard case. Made Gordy look like a cheap imitation.

Cato diverted off into Kev’s criminal history in the archives – dead he might be, but his crimes lived on in cyberspace. That was more like it: standover and extortion, firearms offences, armed robberies, and very bad company. Big brother was moving in exactly the right circles. So Gordon’s jewels of intelligence most likely came from Kevin. Gordy Wellard was just a messenger boy.

Cato returned to Hutchens’ career file. The dates were wrong. Some of the possible tip-offs occurred well after Kevin’s death in November 1996. He re-checked the informant source codes. The same ones that peppered the file before Kev died continued into his afterlife. So if little brother Gordy was one of those informers perhaps he’d ingratiated himself with the really bad boys to continue the supply of information. Or Cato’s theory was simply wrong and Kevin hadn’t been the real snitch. Either way it didn’t get him any closer to understanding what was going on between Hutchens and Gordy Wellard now. In the meantime Cato decided to push on and go for a late lunch and a short day; he closed the Hutchens and Wellard files and opened up Colin Graham for inspection.

Colin Graham’s career history read very much like that of DI Hutchens: maybe that’s why the DI had taken a strong dislike
to him. The usual ingredients had seen Colin Graham also rise steadily in the ranks. The only surprise was that he hadn’t actually got any further. He didn’t seem to have put a foot wrong. By that reckoning he should have been at least Senior Sergeant or Inspector by now, instead of plain old DS. His career seemed to have stalled for the last three or four years, yet he was still getting results and commendations. The most recent was two years ago. A raid on the Marangaroo home of a high-ranking drug dealer with Eastern States loyalties had resulted in a shoot-out. The dealer died. DS Graham was exonerated by an internal inquiry and later commended for his swift and decisive action to defend the lives of his colleagues.

Where most high-flyers used various departments as steppingstones towards the top jobs, Graham seemed to have landed in the Gangs section of Organised Crime and stayed there. Maybe he’d found his niche, liked it, and didn’t want to move.

Cato recalled their time together in Gangs. Graham was a sharp operator: charming, funny, cold, threatening, one of the boys, a lone wolf, bent, straight. A man for all seasons. Had Cato trusted him? Yes. They’d been in a number of hair-raising situations together and Cato had never not-believed that he could rely on his partner to help get them out safely. Dirty Harry and the Jedi, childish blokey nicknames for each other. But Cato’s fond reminiscences of
dos hombres
leading the fight between good and evil didn’t really help DI Hutchens achieve his aims. Was Cato really going to let himself be dragged into this? Both Hutchens and Graham were big enough to fight their own battles. Cato scrolled through the remainder of Graham’s file as a prelude to wrapping up for the day.

And then he spotted a familiar name.

‘Cato. In here. Now.’

DI Hutchens’ desk looked nice and tidy. The phone was parallel to the edge allowing a three-centimetre border. There was an A4 note pad and biro in the centre approximately ten centimetres in front of the DI’s elbows: in-and-out-trays in the top left and right corners: a closed laptop just to his left and a half-drunk mug of coffee just beyond his right hand. Up on the filing cabinet to his right, a picture of Mrs Hutchens at a posh function in a plunging neckline.

‘Boss?’ said Cato.

‘Shut the door behind you.’

He did.

‘Sit down.’

Ditto.

‘What are you playing at?’

‘Hmm?’

Cato wondered how Hutchens had busted him so quickly. He’d half-expected Hutchens to follow where he’d been in the database so before he logged off he’d attempted to leave a false trail. It wasn’t foolproof and it relied on Hutchens being lazy, preoccupied, and not too tech-savvy. Any of those was a fair bet on most days but the look on Hutchens’ face suggested that Cato had underestimated him.

Hutchens leaned back in his chair and waved his hand in front of him. ‘Look at my desk, what do you see?’

‘Very neat, sir.’

‘No fucking Colin Graham report, that’s what.’

‘Ah,’ said Cato, relieved at possibly dodging a bullet.

‘Ah,’ said Hutchens.

Cato cleared his throat. ‘His record is spotless, sir. Never put a foot wrong. Nothing to report.’

‘Nothing?’

‘Nothing concrete, nothing of consequence.’

Hutchens’ eyes narrowed. ‘Explain yourself.’

‘He had a professional run-in with Santo Rosetti a few months ago.’

‘Really? That’s interesting. Tell me more.’

‘I reckon you know it already. It’s a five-minute job to scan Graham’s record. Even a busy bloke like you would have found time for that.’

‘Humour me,’ said Hutchens.

‘Claim and counter-claim on a botched raid. Each blamed the other. A couple of shipments of ice in two trucks go walkabout, a prominent Perth identity escapes charges, and Gangs suspects a mole in their midst. You’re figuring on using that to try and tie Col to Rosetti’s murder?’

Hutchens shook his head and tutted. ‘But we’d need facts and evidence for that, wouldn’t we?’

‘And you want me to go looking for some, on the quiet.’

‘It’s what you do best, Cato.’

‘And whether or not I find any, mud sticks: especially if there’s a parallel disciplinary inquiry. Keeps him from sniffing around your job, if that’s what he’s doing.’

Hutchens eyes twinkled. ‘I hadn’t thought of it like that.’

‘What if I say no?’

‘Why would you?’

‘It’s my job to investigate crime, not dob on colleagues.’

‘What if he really is implicated in Rosetti’s murder?’

‘It’s Lara’s case; she can work it out. Or bring in the Internals.’

‘I’ve already got the Inquisition looking at him for the Greek fiasco. It’s all around the office: Graham’s fucking Lara, she’s not objective right now.’

Objectivity: not Hutchens’ strong point either. Cato said nothing.

‘It’s not like you’re over-stretched, Cato. Restricted duties until you’ve fully recuperated. And I’ve received your email recommending DC Thornton be allowed to run with Safer Streets. Given how busy you might be in the immediate future, the answer’s
a provisional yes.’ Hutchens smiled encouragingly. ‘You might even crack the Rosetti case. How would that look?’

Cato tried another avoidance tactic. ‘I’d need resources. Lots. You can’t do something like this on your own.’

‘Sure you could. All you need to do is look closer at what Rosetti was investigating before he died and get more details on the tiff they had. I’ve got a number for Rosetti’s UC handler, that’s a starting point. If anything comes of it, IA will put in all the resources it needs.’

Cato tried a last desperate act. He grimaced. ‘I’ll give it a go but my injury’s been playing up lately. I might have come back to work a bit too early.’

Hutchens looked concerned. ‘Sure. Take it easy, mate, nice and slow. Don’t bust a gut.’

Lara saw the expression on Cato Kwong’s face as he emerged from Hutchens’ office. She felt unexpectedly sympathetic.

‘How’s it going?’

He looked cornered. ‘Been better.’

‘The gut?’

‘On the mend.’ He patted it gingerly.

‘What are you working on at the moment?’

‘Paperwork. Reports. Stuff.’ He pointed to his wound. ‘Not up to much at the moment.’

‘Poor thing.’ She surprised herself at how genuine she sounded. He seemed a bit taken aback too. ‘If there’s anything I can do to help, let me know.’

‘Sure. Thanks.’ He disappeared behind his partition.

The office was like that these days. Hutchens was in siege mode and his example had infected the rest. Everybody was heads down, bums up and cards close to chests. In some ways she preferred it like that. She heard Cato murmuring on the phone. Lara could see Hutchens staring at her through his open office door. The stare turned into a summons.

‘Boss?’ She stood at the threshold, hip cocked.

‘Come in and close the door.’ She did and took a seat. ‘Where are
we at with Rosetti, the Trans, Papadakis, the dero. Remind me. It’s all getting a bit...’ He flapped his hands uselessly.

Lara knew how he felt. She summarised the main points. ‘Jimmy Tran denies murdering Rosetti, as you know, and the blood evidence on the knife used to stab Cato implicates Dieudonne.’

‘Check.’

‘Tran also denies any responsibility for the death of Mr Papadakis and suggests Mickey Nguyen was responsible, acting under his own volition.’

‘Volition. Nice word. Check.’

‘Mickey burned to death so we can’t ask him.’

‘Which leaves the dero. What’s happening there?’

‘Forensics finished with the Willagee house over the weekend. There was a sleeping bag and some books, I’m betting they were Dieudonne’s. So if our man was there, and the “dero” – his name’s Jeremy Dixon by the way – told me he was, then he’ll have left traces. Dieudonne doesn’t seem that worried about clearing up after himself.’

‘Strange.’

‘Why?’

‘Well if it
was
him that did Rosetti, he went through all that palaver with the locked cubicle door and other smartypants stuff. Since then he’s been like a bull in a china shop. What do you reckon, Lara?’

‘The same thought occurred to me over the weekend.’

‘And?’

‘Maybe he was under specific orders for the Rosetti killing to muddy the waters but since then he’s been doing his own thing?’

‘Orders from who?’

‘Jimmy Tran?’

‘You’re determined to get Jimmy aren’t you? What’s your evidence for a connection between him and the African?’

‘None so far. I was going to re-examine the CCTV and the mobile phone footage, ditto the witness statements, maybe reinterview club staff and patrons. We were looking for Santo and Jimmy first time round. Can I ask you something, boss?’

‘Fire away.’

‘In the interview with Tran the other day you seemed to be interested in a past history between Graham and the Trans. Why?’

Hutchens scratched his nose. ‘I’m just wondering if there’s something personal in Col’s obsession with Jimmy.’

Lara conceded the point with a nod. ‘Either way, the key to this is Dieudonne. We need to find him.’

‘Need any help?’

About time. ‘Is there a reason this hasn’t been getting the attention it deserves, boss?’

‘How do you mean?’

She counted on her fingers. ‘Rosetti, Dixon, Papadakis, Nguyen. Four dead in a fortnight and it’s as if we’re not that fussed. I’ve seen more resources go into a Northbridge juvey round-up. It’s like we’re setting ourselves up to fail.’

‘Why would we want do that?’

To put me in my place maybe? Lara shrugged.

A warning frown, he’d read her mind. ‘Lara, this job’s tough enough without carrying around a bloody great chip on your shoulder. If I didn’t have faith in you, you’d still be in Albany chasing bogans. We have Major Crime, area Ds, and uniforms doing the donkeywork on Papadakis and Nguyen. The other two, we already know whodunnit – Dieudonne. We’ve got pressure from above to be discreet about the UC aspect with Santo. It’s a balancing act and I’m doing my best. So, I ask again, who do you want to help?’

Lara realised she’d better pull her head in. Resources allocation and case management were not in her job description. ‘Well DS Meldrum is in charge and I’m sure he’ll come to you if we need any more bodies, boss.’

‘Both you and I know that Graham was running the case and the whole time Meldrum has been twiddling his thumbs. Leave him to his Rotary talks. Get Cato to help you with the office stuff: the CCTV, the mobes and the statements. You get out there and find the fucker.’

It made sense. She didn’t even feel her usual territoriality about
letting Cato near her case. So why, when she closed the door on Hutchens’ office, did she feel like she’d just been had?

Cato hadn’t looked at any pictures, and tried not to think about the man who had become known as Dieudonne. Now he was there in front of him, a blurry CCTV image on Lara’s laptop. Cato had the musky smell of him in his nostrils, the breath, the gleam of teeth: the feel of his wrist tendons as they fought for control of the knife.

Do not struggle, my friend. Accept it.

Cato was sweating. The room swirled.

‘You okay?’ Lara, looking concerned.

‘Yeah.’ Cato swallowed down his rising nausea. ‘So he was in a camping shop at the weekend. What now?’

‘He’s been good at staying off the radar. Maybe he picked up a few camouflage tricks in the Congo. He bought a cheapo sleeping bag with cash then caught a bus on Leach Highway heading west. Got off again at Freo Station.’ She clicked her fingers. ‘Poofff. Thin air. Frankly I don’t know where to start.’

‘And you think he’s being run by Jimmy Tran?’

‘It’s an idea.’

‘Tried asking Tran where this bloke is?’

‘You serious?’

‘Why not?’

‘And Hutchens thought you’d be able to help me.’ She closed her laptop grumpily. ‘Any other ideas, hotshot?’

‘You got a number for Jimmy Tran?’

‘You
are
serious aren’t you?’ She gave him the number.

They found the Tran brothers at an outside table at the rear of Little Creatures down by Fishing Boat Harbour. Late afternoon on a weekday and it may as well have been prime-time Friday night: the beer barn was packed to its high rafters. Out on the harbour, crayboats and trawlers creaked on their moorings and seagulls squawked for attention. There was an aroma of salt, oil, hot chips and beer in the lacklustre breeze. Jimmy and Vincent had dressed up, clean shirts with collars, boardies and trainers. In their
‘going-out’ gear, Lara noticed how similar they looked. Vincent, although younger, was a slightly bigger and more muscular version of his brother.

‘Business meeting?’ said Lara, waving her fingers at their attire.

They ignored her. She introduced Cato. Vincent, the strong silent type, just stared and unwrapped a stick of gum. Jimmy Tran studied Cato and cracked a smile. ‘We met a few years ago I think?’

Cato shook hands with the Trans. ‘Life treating you well, Jimmy?’

‘Can’t complain.’ Jimmy glanced at Lara. ‘Even if I wanted to.’ Cato took drink orders and headed for the bar. Jimmy watched him go. ‘Hospitable. Friendly. Respectful. He’s an improvement on DS Graham.’

‘You think so?’ said Lara.

‘So what’s he here for? Speakee the lingo with the natives?’

‘He’s helping me out.’

‘Where’s DS Graham?’

‘Unavailable.’

‘Pending a disciplinary hearing.’

‘You’re well informed.’

‘I make it my business to be.’

‘We need your help, Jimmy.’

‘If you’re after favours it’s “Mr Tran”. Remember?’

She played along. ‘Mr Tran.’

He snorted and raised a Rogers to his lips. ‘You can’t afford me.’

Cato returned with two new Rogers for the boys, a pilsener for Lara, and a lemon, lime and bitters for himself. He chucked in a packet of Nobby’s Nuts for good measure. ‘Cheers.’

Jimmy was clearly bored with Lara, he latched onto Cato instead. ‘You the tracker or something?’

Cato acted like he didn’t get it. ‘Sorry?’

‘What’s the Chinese equivalent of a coconut?’

Cato smiled. ‘It didn’t work when I was in Gangs, Jimmy. Not going to work now, is it? We wouldn’t want to insult your intelligence.’

Jimmy seemed to like that. ‘So what are you after and what’s in it for me?’

Lara unfolded the pic of Dieudonne and slid it over the table.
‘Can you tell us where to find him?’

Both Trans leaned over for a look. Jimmy lifted his head. ‘Who is he?’

Lara looked him in the eye and realised this was one of those rare occasions when Jimmy Tran was probably telling the truth.

Cato studied the back of Superintendent Scott’s head. He needed a haircut and a neck shave and there was a pimple struggling to the surface. It was an anomaly in an otherwise carefully groomed image. A faulty fluoro flickered in the corridor and Scott pointed it out to a passing staff member.

‘Get somebody onto it, today.’

A smell of large-scale cooking in the air: spag bol for dinner. Cato’s stomach rumbling at the thought of prison food? He’d never have imagined it. As Lara had driven them away from Little Creatures, she’d seemed preoccupied.

‘So the Trans don’t know the African either?’ Cato prompted.

‘Doesn’t look like it.’

At the crossroads there was an interlude of passing Fremantle scenery: sunburnt backpackers spilling out of the Norfolk Hotel, an old Noongar limping across the road and made to hurry by a BMW convertible running the amber. ‘What’s Colin’s thoughts?’

Grumpy gear change. ‘He’s off the case. Doesn’t matter what his thoughts are.’

‘Right, sure.’ Cato could see a pulse in the skin at her left temple. He didn’t envy the pressure she would be under to find Dieudonne, and now an extra pair of hands had been taken away from her because of Hutchens and his office politics. Cato found it hard to believe there could be any substance to the DI’s machinations. ‘Hopefully that’ll get sorted out soon. We can’t afford to let the Cols of this world sit idle. Dirty Harry’ll bounce back soon enough.’