Getting Warmer (14 page)

‘What’s with the nickname?’ said Lara.

‘It’s what I called him when we worked together a few years ago. He lives on the edge but he gets results.’

They pulled up outside Freo cop shop.

‘So you’re old mates then?’

Cato recalled another conversation in a Red Rooster. ‘Not mates really, more like partners.’

Then Superintendent Scott had called him on his mobile. ‘Wellard wants to speak to you, alone. Says it’s urgent.’

‘Tell him to write me a letter. I’m not in the business of pandering to people like him.’

‘Yeah, that’s what I told him, more or less. He said it’s about his brother. Thought you might be interested.’

Cato was. ‘Is he still frothing at the mouth?’

‘Nah, we’ve been feeding him the happy pills since then. He’s a pussycat.’

Cato took his seat in the interview room.

Wellard’s lip had a fresh scab but apart from that there were no obvious signs of their previous encounter. ‘Why are you interested in Kev?’

Something was bothering Wellard. His eyes were glazed but his facial muscles were working overtime and he kept glancing up at the camera. Maybe they needed to up the dosage on the happy pills.

‘You asked me to come here, Gordon. I’m not here to answer your questions. What is it you want to tell me about your brother?’

‘Kev’s dead.’

‘I know, I read it in the paper. November 1996.’

Wellard blinked and chewed his fingernail. ‘Whatever. I want to know who killed him.’

‘What makes you think somebody killed him?’

‘He disappeared. Didn’t come back.’

‘Now you know how Shellie feels.’

‘This isn’t about her, it’s about me.’

‘Not as far as I’m concerned. Anyway, Kev’s old news, we’re talking fifteen years or more. You need to build a bridge, mate.’

Wellard sniffed, looked pissed off. ‘They’re out to get me.’

‘Who?’

‘Dunno. Been getting funny looks the last few days. Something’s goin’ on. Ever since you came to see me last time. Did you mention Kev as a threat to me?’

‘Feeling a bit vulnerable?’

‘Gofuckyerself.’ Cool, cocky ice man had reverted to a whining teenager.

Cato looked at the clock on the wall. ‘Time for my dinner. Enjoy your spag bol; hope nobody puts anything in it.’

‘What does Mr Hutchens say about me?’

‘He reckons you’re a waste of oxygen. No use to him any more.’

‘He wants me dead, doesn’t he?’

‘You’re not the centre of his universe, Gordy.’ Cato rose to leave. ‘I’ve got a bit on today, mate. You invited me here. You’re wasting my time.’

‘I bet he knows who killed Kev.’

‘Why would he?’

A sly smile. ‘There’s lots he knows that he’s not telling.’

‘That makes two of you. Look, maybe he does know but unless you’re offering anything in return we’re not interested.’

‘What about Briony?’

‘No more mind games, Gordy. No more outings. No more deals. If you want to tell us where she is, draw a mud map and get the Super to fax it through.’

Cato settled in for an evening of Indian takeaway and trash TV. He’d just left another message on the number Hutchens had given him for Santo Rosetti’s UC handler, a bloke called ‘John’. Time to call it a day, eat some fast food and watch
The Biggest Loser.
There was a knock at his front door. It was Shellie. With a bottle of red wine.

‘Hi,’ said Cato. ‘Everything okay?’ Stupid question.

Shellie brushed past him, collected two glasses from his kitchen and sat down in the armchair he’d saved for himself. She sloshed some cleanskin shiraz into the glasses and shoved Cato’s and the plate of curry across the table. ‘Cheers. Don’t mind me.’

‘What are you doing here, Shellie?’ She shrugged and took a great interest in
The Biggest Loser.
‘Shellie?’

She took a slurp and banged her glass back on the table. ‘You haven’t a fucking clue.’

It didn’t seem to invite a reply.

Shellie tapped her forehead. ‘You live up here. Maybe you have
to because of your job. Everything’s a mystery, a game, a bloody puzzle.’ She took another slurp, eyes blazing.

‘Shellie, I...’

‘Shut up and listen.’

Cato muted the TV and did as he was told.

‘I still see Bree. Out on the streets, in shops ... around.’ She held the glass to her cheek. ‘Sometimes she’s fifteen with that bloody ugly lip stud. Sometimes she’s a young woman, an office worker or a student or something, making her way in the world. Once I saw her and she was still only six, in her tutu and fairy wings.’ Shellie’s eyes brimmed and she laughed bitterly. ‘How fucked up is that? Sometimes I lie in bed in the morning waiting for Bree to come and jump on me like she did when she was three.’

Cato searched for words but couldn’t find any. Shellie was right: he didn’t have a clue. Faced with this raw grief he felt useless.

‘Everything I do, everywhere I go, every day, she’s there and she’s not there. Sometimes I think I’m getting better, normal, managing you know? Other times, like now, I feel like I’m going mad. Or I want to join her.’ Shellie refilled her glass, a shaking hand lifted it to her lips. ‘I brought that bastard into her life.’

‘You couldn’t have known what he was like.’

‘No? Maybe deep down I did. Maybe I’m the one who’s really to blame for all this. Who knows?’ Shellie put down her glass and stared directly into Cato’s eyes. ‘Wellard’s telling me it’s “finders keepers”, he’s saying Bree belongs to him and he won’t give her back. What would you do?’

‘Did another note turn up?’

‘No. Answer my question.’

‘I don’t know,’ said Cato.

She drained her glass and stood to leave.

‘You can’t go, not like this.’

‘What are you offering? A shoulder to cry on? A comfort fuck?’ She shook her head and made for the door. ‘Once bitten.’

He reached out a hand. ‘You need to get help.’

She turned. ‘Fuck off. I’ll decide what I need.’

Cato had no answers. Maybe Wellard would send through his
mud map in the morning and it would all be over. On TV there was a close-up of a chubby surprised face. A big loser had just learned he’d been eliminated.

Cato was woken by his mobile. He groaned. He’d been in the middle of a not unpleasant dream involving Shellie Petkovic and some antiseptic ointment. Under the current circumstances, his erotic fixation with her was cause for significant ethical concern. All the same, nice dream. The caller was Hutchens and it was just gone 5.45.

‘You awake?’

‘No.’

‘Good, we need to go out to Casuarina. Up for it?’

‘No. I’ve been stabbed. It hurts.’

‘Somebody’s topped Wellard. You interested now?

They’d made short work of Gordon Francis Wellard. A sharpened, tape-reinforced toothbrush had been rammed into his right eye and, according to the on-site medic, had penetrated the brain. Just to make sure, somebody had stamped on his head several times. There was blood all over the kitchen floor and crime tape keeping the scene off-limits. Breakfast was being bussed in from a catering service out near the airport, plastic cutlery and all. The Casuarina inmates were in lockdown – it would be room service only today.

Cato looked at his boss. DI Hutchens was transfixed by the image of Wellard curled up in the corner beside the fridge.

‘Who did it?’ said Hutchens.

Superintendent Scott cleaned his spectacles on his tie. ‘Bikies. It looks like there were two and the CCTV identifies them as Apache associates. We have them isolated and under watch and their cells have been taped off.’

Hutchens grunted. ‘Sequence of events?’

‘Alarm raised at 04.52. My officers were called by a prisoner from the kitchen breakfast roster who found him. They attended and initiated a Code Red. We immediately summoned paramedic staff from the hospital block. They arrived within a few minutes and confirmed death. You’ll be wanting the logs and the names of those involved?’

‘Sure,’ said Hutchens, ‘and the CCTV, and the visitors and phone logs all in good time. Any motives yet?’

Scott sniffed. ‘Apart from the fact that everybody thought he was a sick puppy who didn’t know when to stop yapping? No.’

Cato thought about his last meeting with Wellard yesterday.

They’re out to get me ... Been getting funny looks the last few days. Something’s going on.

Gordon Wellard was right. Something had been going on and someone was out to get him. Cato looked up at the camera mounted on the wall in the corner where Wellard lay. It pointed away from the body towards a serving counter. There was a second camera on the wall above the counter, looking back into the kitchen area. A third sat dead centre on the ceiling.

‘There’s somebody monitoring the security vision all the time?’ asked Cato.

‘Sure, we can take you to the control room whenever you like.’

DI Hutchens shook his head. ‘Later.’ He marshalled some minions to do witness interviews. Hutchens tapped Cato on the shoulder. ‘You’re with me. I want to talk to these pesky injuns now.’

‘The Apaches? Which one first?’ said Scott, summoning a jailer.

‘The stupidest,’ said Hutchens.

‘That’ll be Danny Boy,’ said Superintendent Scott.

Danny Mercurio was a bikie from central casting. Dodgy facial hair, built like the brick proverbial, tattoos, et cetera. He was sitting in an interview room in his prison-visit greys: there were two screws hovering just outside the door and the recording equipment was on.

‘Which were you: toothbrush or headkicker?’ inquired Hutchens.

‘Nuthin’ to say.’ Mercurio’s voice was higher than Cato expected, like maybe he’d swallowed a jockey.

Hutchens sized him up. ‘Headkicker, I reckon. Toothbrush needed a bit of finesse: right on target. Can’t see you having the necessary hand–eye coordination.’

‘Where’s my lawyer?’

‘Mr Hurley’s stuck in traffic on the freeway.’

‘Sat’dy mornin’?’

Hutchens nodded. ‘I know, the road system’s shithouse isn’t it? Need some of that Royalties for Regions money in Perth, I reckon.’

‘Saying nuthin’ without the lawyer.’ Mercurio folded his arms and stared at the ceiling.

Hutchens aped the gesture. ‘What would you be saying if he was here?’

‘Nuthin’.’

‘Due out soon aren’t you? Another few months.’

‘No comment.’

Danny’s mate was reading from the same script. Kenny Lovett also had nothing to say and wasn’t fazed by the fact that, with just a few months left to serve on his sentence, he seemed set for a much longer stretch. Kenny dismissed, Cato and Hutchens retreated to the staff canteen, nursing coffees and waiting for the bikies’ lawyer, Henry Hurley. The rest of the morning would no doubt be a frustrating and time-wasting series of ‘no comment’ sessions. Cato was aware of a healthy enmity between Hooray Henry and his boss, dating back to their encounter on the Hopetoun case, perhaps earlier. Hutchens had treated himself to a bacon and egg toastie from the self-service food warmer and was examining the insides closely.

‘Do you reckon they spit in the food?’

There was nobody around apart from two tired-looking corrections officers. ‘On their wages I reckon I would, yeah.’

‘I meant the prisoners, dickhead.’

‘I can’t see staff allowing them anywhere near these kitchens, boss.’

Hutchens risked a bite and chewed thoughtfully. ‘Why have those gorillas just opted to spend the rest of their lives in a cage? I know they’re not too bright but this is something else.’

‘They really took a strong dislike to Wellard?’

‘Who wouldn’t? But this smacks of an obligation. Either the pay-off was well worth the extra time, or the consequences of not doing it were a whole lot worse.’ Hutchens’ mobile buzzed, he checked the screen. ‘The prick’s here.’

Cato assumed he meant the lawyer.

If Dieudonne wasn’t working for the Trans, then who was he working for? Lara dunked a peppermint teabag in her cup and returned to her desk. She decided to review the CCTV footage, the confiscated mobiles, and the witness statements for any traces of him. Cato and Hutchens were tangled up in the Wellard case
at Casuarina so there would be no one looking over her shoulder today.

It was midmorning by the time she’d worked her way through the statements. None of them alluded to any Africans although there were passing references to the Vietnamese guys, the Trans and Mickey Nguyen. That was strange. If Dieudonne was there then he should at least have been noticed by the bouncers or the door bitch; how many Africans did they get in the club on a Thursday 80s retro night? Unless, of course, he was privy to the rooftop door that the Trans had used that night. The CCTV footage was inconclusive. The front door camera had zilch but there were a couple of figures passing the dance floor cameras that may or may not have been him. Lara noted the timecodes with a view to having the images enhanced by the techs. It was now lunchtime. Her neck and shoulders were tight from hunching over the screen; she needed a break. Her mobile trilled – caller ID, Colin Graham.

‘Dirty Harry himself,’ said Lara. ‘How’s it going?’

A pause. ‘Good. You?’

‘Good,’ said Lara.

‘Sorry about being grumpy on Saturday, lot on my mind.’

‘Poor sausage.’

‘Thought I might pop over later?’

‘When?’

‘Early evening?’

‘For how long?’

‘Long enough.’

She thought about it for a second. ‘Okay.’

‘Great. See you then.’

Lara realised she was hungry.

As expected it had been a fruitless few hours with the bikies and their lawyer and by the end of the morning Cato’s knife wound was giving him grief so they called it a day. Unusually solicitous, Hutchens encouraged Cato to go home and rest for the afternoon. In the car park, the DI zapped the locks and Cato tugged the passenger door open. It was time to come clean.

‘I spoke to Wellard yesterday afternoon.’

‘You did what?’

‘You heard.’

The solicitousness had been replaced by a growl. ‘And?’

‘He wanted to talk about his brother.’

‘Arsehole’s dead, that makes two of them.’

‘He reckons you know how Kev died. He was looking at offering up Bree in return.’

‘That right? Did he tell you where Bree was, then?’

‘No.’

‘Surprise.’

Cato decided to drop it; he wasn’t going to get anywhere today. ‘So what about Shellie?’

‘What about her?’

‘Shouldn’t she be told?’

Hutchens unfolded the heat shield from the windscreen and tossed it on the back seat. ‘Drop by and see her in the morning if you’re up to it. The squad can put together the timeline and the statements and such this arvo. I’ll find something for you to do after you’ve talked to Shellie.’

‘Okay.’

Hutchens registered the recalcitrant tone. ‘What’s up?’

Cato reclined his seat a notch to ease the discomfort. ‘I thought you’d be all over this like a rash. You seem...’ Cato searched for the right word. ‘Relaxed?’

‘Hardly, I’ve got enough on my plate already. But he’s solved a lot of problems by carking it.’

‘Shellie might beg to differ.’

‘You reckon?’ Hutchens ignored a few road rules and checked his mobile for messages while he drove.

The remaining punters from that night at the Birdcage had been traced and interviewed and a half-dozen more mobiles sequestered for possible evidence. From the new batch, fourth mobile in, Lara found him. The phone belonged to a Dutch backpacker and she’d taken a photo of her mates with their drinks raised and arms around
a couple of surfie dudes who had a just-got-lucky look about them. Dieudonne was passing right of frame and the flash had frozen him. Blue VonZipper T-shirt, eyes focused on something to his left outside of frame. The same calm he showed at X-Wray Cafe. No mistake.

So we’ve got you on the premises on the night, and then later in possession of a knife with Santo’s blood on it, thought Lara. A bit more finessing and he would be their man. They just needed to find him, that’s all. Motive. Did they need one? Increasingly it counted for little these days: just look at the headlines. Two teenage girls strangle their friend and dump her in a wheelie bin. ‘She was up herself.’ A man stomps his flatmate to death. ‘He looked at me funny.’

Lara worked her way through the rest of the mobiles. On the last one he was there again: in the background of another sculling and cleavage shot. Less defined than the previous pic but this time given away by the same VonZipper T-shirt she’d identified earlier. He was talking on a mobile phone, its blue-white light illuminating his right cheek. Would he be on the records of any of the telcos? If so, they might be able to track him. She started making the calls.

‘He’s dead.’

Cato didn’t take up the DI’s offer of an afternoon off. Instead he’d downed some painkillers, topped up his blood sugar levels with a pie and a Cherry Ripe, and paid Shellie a visit.

Shellie’s brow furrowed. ‘How? When?’

‘This morning. Killed by one or more fellow inmates.’

Shellie filled two coffee mugs with hot water. What was that look on her face? Wistful perhaps? Regretful? Relieved? ‘I’m glad Gordon’s dead, it makes it all a bit easier.’ She handed a coffee to Cato.

‘Pity he didn’t give up Bree first,’ Cato said.

Shellie nodded automatically. She led them both outside to the patio table. ‘Sorry for last night. Sometimes it all gets too much and I need to let off steam. You copped it.’

‘No worries.’

‘So what happens next?’ she said, not seeming to care about the answer.

‘We put the case together, prosecute the perpetrators, move on.’

‘You sound like a report. “Perpetrators”.’

‘Sorry.’

‘Are you?’

Every question, look, or gesture felt like a trap today. Cato wished he hadn’t said yes to the coffee, he wanted a quick, cowardly getaway.

‘Will there be a funeral?’

Cato hadn’t thought about it. ‘Probably, eventually.’

‘Let me know when.’

‘Why? I thought you’d want to keep well away.’

She shook her head. ‘I’d like to see the bastard off the face of the earth. It’s the least I can do. For Bree.’

Funerals. That reminded Cato of something. ‘Did Wellard ever talk to you about his brother?’

‘Kevin?’

‘Yeah. He died.’

‘Drowned.’

‘That right? I didn’t know the details.’

‘Mundaring. The dam. Why?’

The informer tip-off dates that didn’t make sense. The last visit, yesterday.
He disappeared. Didn’t come back.
Something was beginning to take shape but it depended on the answer to Cato’s next question.

The internet cafe was a good place to hide. He was surrounded by teenage gamers, young men in hoodies and baseball caps, opting to spend their days of summer in this stuffy hole. They used foul language and they looked at him like they were better than him. Why, thought Dieudonne, because you are white? Because you are Australian? He recalled the gang who’d surrounded him on Australia Day, measuring him up: little black man, easy target they thought. They fell away like frightened children when he stood up to them. Maybe these hoodie boys would also try to find out for
themselves. Let them. His blood was up.

It was both a strange yet familiar sensation for Dieudonne: being hunted. In Kivu he had been both predator and prey. Usually it was a simple affair: follow tracks, sniff the wind, look for smoke, listen for sounds. Move in, terrorise, kill, leave. Here in Australia there was all this clever technology. Cameras that follow you everywhere, phones that track you. He wondered how many of those gadgets would be powered by the magic dust, tantalum? He closed his emails, typed in the word and clicked the search button. The first page told him what he already knew: tantalum is very precious and very important. They use it to make the electronic games that all the children play and to make the mobile phones that everybody says they need. Life in Kivu was cheap, cheaper than one grain of the rare earth that made all those toys and gadgets for a grasping greedy planet.

Another click. Wikipedia told him that the dust the world digs out of the big hole near his village was named after Tantalus, the father of Niobe, the goddess of tears in Greek mythology. Dieudonne chuckled to himself. One of the gamers straight across from him looked up.

‘Choo laughin’ at?’

‘Nothing to do with you, my friend.’ Something about Dieudonne’s tone of voice and blank expression told the young man not to take the matter further. The gamer ducked his head and returned to his online killing spree.

Tantalus was a rich man, his wealth came from mining. Like many ancient Greek mythological figures he had both mortal and divine parents. Tantalus was welcomed to Zeus’s table in Olympus, home of the gods. But once there, like a gatecrasher at a suburban party, he misbehaved and stole the food of his hosts to bring back to his people. Worse still, he revealed the secrets of the gods.