Getting Warmer (17 page)

‘Hair colour, height?’

‘Dark. Big.’

‘What dealings had you had with Wellard prior to that?’

‘None.’

‘He was on duty in the kitchen too. Same roster. You must have
had some contact.’

‘You can work with people without talking to them or being their mate.’

He wasn’t wrong there, that pretty well summed up Cato’s professional life. Mazza went on. ‘He was a cocky, sleazy little prick. Nobody liked him. Nobody talked to him. You want a list of suspects? Try everybody in here.’

Cato was aware of the guard shuffling by the door.

Mazza looked down at his hands. ‘I didn’t have anything to do with it. Are we finished now?’

Superintendent Scott personally escorted Cato to the exit.

‘How’d it go?’ he said thumbing back in the general direction of Stephen Mazza.

‘Sticking pretty much to his statement. His story matches with Ms Petkovic’s. They’re old friends. She needed a shoulder to cry on. Nothing more.’

Scott shook his head. ‘That was an ugly business out at Beeliar. Poor woman. We did advise your boss against it.’

Cato glanced sideways at his companion. ‘Win some, lose some. I’m sure DI Hutchens had her best interests at heart.’

‘Undoubtedly.’ They were at reception. A flunkey passed a package to Scott which he then offered to Cato. ‘The CCTV disks from the outside cameras – you only have the interior stuff, so far. Thought it might be useful.’

The man was a regular customer service guru, thought Cato, maybe he’d once worked at Bunnings. Scott offered his hand for shaking. ‘If there’s anything else I can help with, don’t hesitate.’

Cato had plenty of questions for Superintendent Scott but, according to orders, they were off-limits. ‘There is one thing that puzzles me.’

‘Fire away.’

‘Mazza. Given the nature of his crime and the closeness to his release date, I would have expected him to be in a lower security facility by now.’

Scott nodded. ‘You’re right, he should be. Most people would be
busting a gut for a transfer out of here. Staff included.’ He smiled, only joking, really.

‘But Mazza?’ prompted Cato.

‘Every time it looked like he was due to ship out, he arked up. Trashed his cell, assaulted somebody, disobedient to staff. He’s spent a lot of time out the back in Chokey.’ The punishment block. ‘It’s like he had a particular reason for wanting to stay here.’

The shrubs lining the freeway were parched and weary. Cato turned the air con up a notch and flicked on the radio for some distraction. He settled on a golden oldies station: Billy Fury was only Halfway to Paradise. So near yet so far away. Fury, paradise, dissatisfaction: it reminded Cato of the terms of reference for the Stiffies task force. He shuddered at how close he’d come to being lumbered with that.

Every time Cato felt on the verge of grasping some insight into the Wellard case it crumbled like a dried flower in a sudden gust. As he took the off-ramp at South Street his phone trilled. ID blocked.

‘Kwong?’

‘Who’s this?’

‘John.’

‘I know a few Johns. Which one are you?’

‘You called me. About Santo.’ The number Hutchens had given him, Santo’s handler.

‘Oh, right.’

‘You want to meet?’

‘Sure. Where and when?’

‘How about now, that Maccas coming up on the right?’

Cato looked in his rear-view and saw a bloke in a ute talking on a mobile. The bloke lifted his finger from the wheel in a country salute. ‘Cute trick,’ said Cato. ‘See you in there.’

John returned to the table with two Quarter Pounder meal deals. ‘My shout.’

‘Thanks,’ said Cato. John had the build and ruddy complexion of a farmer and his ute had out-of-town plates: Dardanup. Cato pointed his chin at John’s grubby Elders polo shirt. ‘You in disguise, then?’

‘No, I’m on leave. Helping out at the family farm.’

‘And you took time out to follow me around. I’m honoured.’

Farmer John dipped his head. ‘It’s my job.’

They both picked at their burgers and fries, slurped on their Cokes. Cato realised he was becoming overly dependent on other people’s air conditioning. He could have sat there all day eating processed food and tuning out the hyped-up kids and their snarling mums. ‘Santo?’

John glanced furtively around the joint. ‘What about him?’

‘What was his job?’

‘Cop. Intelligence. UC.’

Cato had another fry and waited.

‘Specifically, you mean?’ said John, after a rattle of ice.

Cato nodded.

‘Drugs. He was mixing it with the major suppliers in Perth. You’ll have heard of the Trans and the Apaches?’

‘No, who are they?’

‘Funny cunt.’

Cato swallowed another couple of fries. ‘We’ve been looking at the Trans for his murder but lately it’s shifted over to this African bloke.’

‘Dieudonne.’

‘How come I’m not surprised that you already knew?’

‘Intelligence. It’s what we do.’

‘How about instead of me telling you what we all already know, you tell me something I don’t?’

John chomped the last of his burger and dabbed at his mouth with a napkin. ‘Bad apples.’

‘Dirty cops?’

A terse nod in reply.

‘Who?’

‘That would be an infringement of the rules of natural justice and grounds for an unfair dismissal claim.’

Code for ‘getting warmer’. Cato took the hint. ‘Was Santo getting close?’

‘He seemed to think so.’

‘How many people knew what he was doing?’

‘At least one too many.’

‘Colin Graham was in the loop. He was the one who told me Santo was UC.’

Farmer John flicked a fly away from his face and said nothing.

‘Graham and Santo had a run-in a few months ago: a botched raid or something. What was that about?’

John scraped some dirt from his fingernails.

‘Was Santo looking at Graham?’ said Cato, exasperation creeping into his voice.

‘To the best of our knowledge, DS Colin Graham is an outstanding officer with an exemplary record.’

‘I’ll take that as a yes, then.’

When Cato got back to the office he found an email from Hutchens. The boss was out at some strategy meeting up at Adelaide Terrace HQ but wanted to meet with Cato later on – nothing specific, for a general ‘update’, he said. Sounded ominous. His phone buzzed.

‘Cato?’ It was Colin Graham. Spooky timing.

‘Col. What can I do for you, mate?’

‘Fancy catching up for a beer?’

‘Sure. When?’

‘Tonight? The Seaview? Eight-ish?

‘Okay.’

‘Mine’s a Fat Yak. See you then.’

‘Everything okay, Col?’

‘Hunky-dory mate, why wouldn’t it be?’

‘I heard you were in a bit of grief.’

‘Lara tell you?’

‘Nah, the boss.’

‘Thought he might. Hutchens was going through my career history at the weekend. Vindictive old bastard.’

Cato felt himself flush. ‘How do you know?’

‘Mate in IT section. A real whiz, owes me favours. So, Seaview at eight?’

‘Right.’

Cato felt the lunchtime burger settle heavily in his gut. The DI
might not have tracked his movements on the database but Colin Graham certainly had. Fair enough, Graham wasn’t being paranoid; somebody really was out to get him.

With difficulty, Cato put Graham and the meeting with Farmer John to the back of his mind and focused instead on Mazza, Shellie, and Wellard. He spent the next few hours collating the material needed for the prosecution brief on the Wellard murder: the CCTV footage showing the bikers all over him, the statements from said bikers, from Stephen Mazza, Corrections staff and management, and the attending medicos and associated roster logs for timings. The visitor and communication logs, the photographs, the forensic reports. It was a useful exercise. He tried to crystallise the main points that nagged. A few days before Wellard’s death, Shellie visited an old friend, Stephen Mazza, in Casuarina. Mazza was the first man to find Wellard dead after Danny and Kenny had finished with him. According to the Superintendent, Mazza seemed to be doing everything he could to stay in a prison wing where he really didn’t belong. Was that so he could stay near Wellard? Add all that together and, at face value anyway, Shellie had motive, means, and opportunity to have Wellard murdered.

Other things didn’t add up too. The stageyness of the murder, bikies posing for the security cameras, prison staff conveniently distracted, and Mazza’s calm demeanour upon finding the body. Was this an orchestrated inside hit? A nod and a wink and a look the other way wouldn’t be too hard to arrange and everyone would be reasonably confident that nobody would look too closely at the death of such a reviled character, particularly with two big buffoons taking the fall.

Shellie’s creepy letters. Was there an accomplice, somebody out there who knew what happened to Bree? Prime suspect, Gordy’s big brother Kevin, a dead man who maybe didn’t die after all.

‘All done?’ Hutchens was back from his meeting and pointing at the pile on Cato’s desk.

Cato looked at the bundle representing Shellie Petkovic’s fate. ‘Yes, but still a few loose ends.’ Among other things, he hadn’t got round to reviewing the external CCTV from Casuarina.

‘Great. It’s a start.’ Hutchens hefted it off Cato’s desk and stalked back into his office, kick-closing the door behind him.

The Sri Lankan doctor finished shining his light into Dieudonne’s eyeballs and checking his vital signs. He bowed forward to speak to his patient. ‘The results from this afternoon’s tests should be back by tomorrow morning. Apart from a slightly high temperature you seem to be doing very well. We’ll keep you in here for one more night just to make sure.’

Dieudonne could see the yellowy film in the doctor’s eyes, the puffiness of exhaustion. He smelled the breath of a man who spent too many hours indoors. The doctor patted the back of Dieudonne’s hand, made a note on the chart and whispered instructions to the nurse. He didn’t notice that he’d left his pen on the little table at the end of the bed.

‘Thank you, Doctor,’ said Dieudonne.

‘Talked to John lately?’ Hutchens had summoned Cato for the nonspecific, general end-of-day catch up.

As a rule, Cato’s boss didn’t do ‘non-specific’ and ‘general’. He always had an agenda. ‘You know I have.’

Hutchens closed his laptop and sat back, hands behind head. ‘And?’

‘Santo was looking at dirty cops.’

‘Really?’

‘Really.’

‘Graham?’

‘John retains the utmost confidence in Detective Sergeant Graham and cites his exemplary record of service.’

‘Gee, he’s really fucked isn’t he?’ Hutchens could hardly contain his glee.

Cato hid his distaste. ‘Does Lara know about any of this?’

‘Not to my knowledge.’

‘Shouldn’t she?’

Hutchens tilted his head. ‘Why?’

‘He’s now potentially a suspect in a case she’s investigating. It
might help.’

‘She’s too close. He might get tipped off.’

‘If he’s theoretically capable of having one colleague killed, maybe he could theoretically do it again.’

‘Nah, Col’s a prick but he’s not a killer.’

Col, tracking their movements through cyberspace, calling up out of the blue for a beer. ‘You seem very sure of that.’

‘He hasn’t got the guts.’

‘Since when did killing require courage?’

Hutchens smiled. ‘I’ll keep an open mind. Good work, Cato, keep on digging.’ Woof, thought Cato. He assumed he was dismissed and rose to leave. Hutchens lifted a hand. ‘Been reading the brief and thinking about Shellie and those mystery packages.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Convenient isn’t it?’

‘What is?’

‘It’s just that we never did find an accomplice and we never worked out who sent those packages to Shell. But within a couple of weeks of them starting up, Wellard’s dead. What do you reckon?’

‘Still not sure where you’re headed with this, sir,’ Cato lied.

‘It’s a distraction. It’s like saying, “look over there”. And it worked. On you anyway.’

‘You reckon Shellie sent them to herself?’ Cato played incredulous.

‘How hard would it be Cato, for fuck’s sake.’

‘She put on a very good performance when she received them.’

‘Obviously. You’re her number one fan.’

‘Wellard’s done this before, his mate Weird Billy last year, remember?’

‘Maybe that’s what gave her the idea.’

Cato rubbed his eyes. He felt weary, his injury was throbbing, and he was getting a bit sick of all this. ‘There’s another scenario.’

‘Yeah, what?’

‘Wellard had a brother, Kevin. He supposedly died back in 1996 but a body was never found.’

‘Go on.’

‘There’s speculation he didn’t die.’

‘Speculation?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Who’s been doing the speculating?’

Cato decided to keep his chat with Andy Crouch a secret. ‘Me.’

‘Did Shellie tell you about the brother?’

‘Yes.’

‘And she gave you something to speculate about did she?’

‘In part, yes.’

‘Focus on being a copper, Cato. Facts and evidence. Shellie’s leading you around by your todger and it’s most unseemly.’

Cato and Colin lifted the Fat Yaks to their lips. It was ten past eight and the pub was almost empty. The Seaview was one of those bars that seemed to have survived the yuppification of Fremantle. It had kept its old name and didn’t do tapas. The Irish barmaid gave Cato his change, yawned, scratched her nose stud, and returned her attention to the soccer match replay on the flat screen. Wigan Athletic and Blackburn Rovers were grinding out an enthralling nil-all draw from the previous weekend.

‘Wouldn’t be dead for quids,’ said Colin, in answer to Cato’s inquiry after his welfare.

‘Good to hear.’

‘You? How’s the gut?’

In truth, Cato was feeling crook. His wound felt hot and tender and the gap between doses of painkillers had shortened as the day wore on. A pint of Fat Yak right now was probably not the best idea. ‘Been better,’ he said.

Colin nodded sympathetically. ‘How’s the case?’

Which one, thought Cato, the Wellard murder, the missing teenager, or the covert investigation into you? ‘Wellard?’

‘Yeah, sounds like a real piece of work.’

‘You heard he got topped?’

‘Not much I don’t hear,’ said Graham.

‘Apaches, looks like. Open and shut.’

‘They’re the best cases when you’re flat chat and worse for wear.’

‘True,’ said Cato.

They both nodded meaningfully at this shared insight and drank some Fat Yak. On TV a player got tackled and dropped like he’d been shot. He played dead for a few seconds then got up and trotted away when the referee ignored him.

‘Lara keeping you in the loop on Santo?’ said Colin.

‘No, not really. It’s her baby. I’ve got enough on my plate.’

‘Right, yeah. Your meeting with the Trans didn’t play out then?’

‘Meeting?’

‘You and Lara, Little Creatures.’

‘I see suspension hasn’t kept you out of the loop at all, has it?’

Colin grinned. ‘The Trans get followed everywhere they go. Hutchens might not be interested but Gangs is, always. They keep me posted.’

‘Anything I need to know?’

‘We suspect Santo was in bed with them.’

‘The Trans? In what way?’

‘They knew he was a cop. They kept him on a leash, probably threatened his mum and dad with unspeakable atrocities if he didn’t play ball. He was feeding them high level intelligence on the Apaches.’

‘Is that fact or supposition?’

‘Think about it. A motley collection of skinny-arsed misfits outgunned and outnumbered by the Apaches. Yet they’ve been running rings around them for the last twelve months.’

‘Maybe they’re smarter?’

‘Wouldn’t take much,’ Colin conceded.

‘So why do you think they would have killed Santo, then? They’re ahead in the game. Bit too valuable surely?’

‘Nobody’s indispensable, Cato.’

‘I would have thought the Apaches had more motive to kill him if what you say is right.’ Cato steadied himself against the bar; either the alcohol or his wound, or both, were affecting his balance. ‘No, it doesn’t make sense.’ Cato softly belched some Fat Yak. ‘And even if the Trans did do it, where does the African fit in? He’s the one connected to the murder weapon. Yet the Trans put up a pretty
good show of not knowing him at all. Strange, eh?’

‘Yeah? Maybe the African has nothing to do with it after all?’

‘Oh, I doubt that,’ said Cato as his injury throbbed. ‘I’ve been up close and personal. He’s very capable and all the evidence is starting to point his way. Now we’ve got him, Lara just needs to find out who he’s been working for and then everything’ll fall into place.’