Getting Warmer (25 page)

Wednesday, February 17th. Morning.

‘We need you to clarify what you were doing there, Detective Sumich.’

DI Hutchens didn’t look comfortable in the role of Inquisitor today. That was good, thought Lara, he’d be keen to get it over with, keen for an exit strategy. Hutchens was doing the talking, Meldrum the transcribing, and John was there in case he was needed. No tapes yet and no formal caution. Also no Cato: he’d been sent off to get some coffees and to get on with other duties. He hadn’t kicked up a fuss like she would have: he’d just smiled at Hutchens and John and given Lara a wink on the way past. That spelled danger to her.

‘During the day on Monday, I received a text message from Colin Graham seeking a meeting with me at Capo D’Orlando Drive at 9p.m. that night.’

‘Why didn’t you inform us?’

‘I believed I had the trust of DS Graham and that I had the best chance of bringing him in if I was able to go alone to the rendezvous and persuade him.’

‘Are you serious? This was after he abducted you, assaulted you, and left you to be killed by Dieudonne?’

‘Yes sir, I can see now that it was a poor judgement call.’

‘Fucking right.’ Hutchens lifted a warning finger to the scribbling Meldrum. ‘Don’t write that, dickhead.’

‘What made you think you could persuade him this time?’ said John.

‘It was my belief that Graham himself was not capable of seriously harming me. He had Dieudonne to do that kind of thing. He previously had numerous opportunities to kill me but never did it. As such I believed I was relatively safe.’ Meldrum was struggling
to keep up, tongue poking through. ‘I also believed that during the course of our investigative work together we had bonded to some extent. I also believed that he wanted to surrender, as his options by then were severely limited.’

‘You believed a lot but most of it was wrong,’ said Hutchens.

‘Unfortunately, yes sir.’

Hutchens had that dropped-penny look: the rehearsed answers, the practised delivery. He’d twigged that somebody had tipped her off, he just didn’t know who; yet. He gave John and Meldrum searching looks but didn’t linger on Meldrum too long. He barked out across the office, ‘Cato!’

Cato appeared with a cardboard tray, five coffees and a ready smile: like he’d been expecting the summons. He closed the door and Hutchens brought him up to speed.

‘Very interesting, sir,’ Cato agreed.

‘Carry on, Ms Sumich. You arrived down at the marina and then what?’

Lara re-composed herself and took a sip from the cardboard cup. ‘I arrived early and spent some time at the end of the mole enjoying the view and the sunset over the ocean.’

‘Lovely,’ nodded Cato.

The DI sent him a warning glare. ‘That would have been about seven-ish?’ said Hutchens.

‘That’s right, something like that.’

‘Still a good couple of hours before your rendezvous.’

‘Yes.’

‘And you just sat on the rocks admiring the view, in the dark, until meeting time?’

‘Obviously I made sure I was very early so that I could recce the scene and assess the risks.’

‘Where did you stash the petrol can?’ said Hutchens.

Lara lifted a hand to her mouth. ‘Surely, you don’t think...’

‘Think what? That you ambushed lover boy, cuffed his hand to the steering wheel, poured petrol over him and set him on fire?’

‘Why would I want to do that?’

‘I wonder,’ said Hutchens.

John raised a hand like he’d just had an idea. ‘There’s a CCTV camera down there overlooking the car park. Have we checked that yet?’

Meldrum stopped scribbling. ‘Out of order. And even when it’s not it’s usually angled and framed on the toilet block looking for perverts.’

‘Really? Shame,’ said John.

‘So tell us your version, Detective.’ Hutchens was beginning to look bored.

‘By about 8.45 the area was pretty well deserted, a fisherman at the end of the mole had packed up and gone not long after 8.00. There was a woman walking her dog about then too. A black ute had come up and done a couple of burnouts in the car park and then left.’

‘Was Graham’s Laser parked up by then?’ said Cato.

‘Yes, although at that point I didn’t recognise it as such.’

‘At what point did you recognise it as such?’ said Hutchens.

‘Never. Not really. Not until we were given the news the following morning.’

‘What do you mean?’

All eyes were on Lara. ‘I got spooked. I had a strong gut feeling that I’d miscalculated and that this was a set-up, an ambush. I think the hoon ute did it. I felt my life was in danger and I got out of there.’

‘If you were scared why didn’t you call in backup?’

Lara steadfastly looked anywhere but at John. ‘I was aware I’d already done the wrong thing by not reporting the planned meeting. I feared I’d get into trouble.’

‘So you didn’t see or speak to Colin Graham?’

‘No, sir.’

‘You didn’t handcuff him to his steering wheel and set him on fire?’

‘No, sir.’

‘You expect me to believe that?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Do you mind if we inspect your kit locker, Detective Sumich?’

‘Not at all, sir.’

The locker inspection confirmed no handcuff shortage. Lara was sent home again to continue her stress leave.

‘And when Melanie Kim calls with your counselling appointments I recommend you play ball.’

‘Absolutely, sir.’

Cato, Meldrum, Farmer John and Hutchens reconvened.

Hutchens slammed his office door, slapped a file down on his desk and slumped into the chair. ‘She’s been tipped off. Which of you did it?’

‘What makes you think that?’ said Farmer John.

‘I didn’t come down in the last shower.’ A twist of the head. ‘Cato?’

If there was a time to ask Farmer John what he was doing visiting Lara yesterday evening then this was it. Instead, Cato took a leaf out of John’s book, staying quiet, hoping to get added value from it later. ‘Not me, sir. Remember I was the one who originally drew attention to her possible culpability. Tipping her off now would be illogical.’

Hutchens shook his head. ‘Culpability? Illogical? Thank you, Mr friggin’ Spock. How about you, Molly?’

Meldrum’s pencil jumped and his lower lip quivered. ‘Me? No. Never.’

‘Nah, I can’t see it either. That leaves you, John.’

John shrugged. ‘Can’t help you, sir. Maybe she’s just had a bit of time to think. She’s a smart cookie. Knew there were possible witnesses putting her at the scene. She could work it out for herself.’

‘The handcuffs?’ said Cato.

John smiled. ‘Just proves that she was innocent and that your theory of the missing cuffs was fanciful speculation.’

‘Got me there,’ said Cato.

Hutchens opened a file and flicked through the papers. ‘Would all this bullshit stand up to more formal scrutiny?’

Cato recognised the signs: Hutchens already knew the answer to his own question.

Farmer John helped him out anyway, just in case. ‘The evidence against her is thin and her story is hard to contradict. She’s also been placed under extreme stress in the course of her duties and an
internal inquiry might be seen as victimisation. In the end, Colin Graham is a case of good riddance to bad rubbish. It’s a no-brainer really. I suggest we drop it.’

‘All agreed then?’ said Hutchens, opening his laptop and inviting them all to get lost.

All neatly sewn up. Lara had obviously seen and known more than she was admitting to. Had Lara killed Graham in revenge for his betrayal of her, or did Farmer John set up the killing as payback for the murder of his colleague Santo? It probably amounted to some permutation of those scenarios. Cato knew he really should care more but Colin Graham was no innocent and it looked like he’d got what he deserved. Cato could settle for that. It was beginning to have parallels with the Wellard case: a nasty piece of work getting his just desserts and, for Cato, a feeling of ambivalence over the relative truths of each matter.

It was now Wednesday and Cato needed some kind of development to keep the bikies off his back ahead of the upcoming court appearance. Maybe he could just explain to the Apaches that there was a bureaucratic delay at the lab but that he really was onto it. Then again forensic evidence was not the point. They knew they hadn’t done it and they knew who really had. Science wasn’t the issue, honour and honesty was. They just wanted Stephen Mazza to stand up and be counted. On impressions to date, Cato had the feeling that Mazza was usually a stand-up kind of bloke. So why not now?

Cato logged in to the system and brought up Stephen Anthony Mazza. He scanned the case details again: no previous record until a drunk-driving incident that killed the three occupants of the other car, an elderly couple and a grandchild returning from a day out at the zoo. Mazza had pleaded guilty and made no attempt to cite any mitigating circumstances for a sentence reduction. He’d copped it sweet, four years. But once inside it seemed like he was determined to make life tougher for himself. He could and should have spent most of his sentence in a low-security prison but he’d decided to make himself a management problem.

Cato already knew this from previous readings but was there anything hiding in the detail that could shed new light? If the theory was that Mazza deliberately arked up in order to be kept in Casuarina with Wellard, then it implied that Mazza had a lethal grudge against Wellard and that he was prepared to make some personal sacrifices in order to wreak his revenge. Believing Wellard to be responsible for Bree’s disappearance or death could inspire that kind of grudge. It also suggested that Mazza took a long-term view of the problem: he was patient enough to wait and pick his moment despite probably having several opportunities over the preceding months and years. So what made this moment the one he chose? Possibly the opportunity to hide it behind somebody else’s crime. Or perhaps it had just taken that long to sharpen the toothbrush and get his nerve up.

Something else was forming in Cato’s brain. Back a step. A lethal grudge, a long-term view, personal sacrifice. This was theoretically about his ex-girlfriend’s daughter. Yes, he might have been prepared to do whatever it took to help out Shellie but this man was prepared to go through hell to achieve his goal. Did Stephen Mazza have a much more personal stake in the death of Wellard? As Cato re-read the case file through that prism he began to see things more clearly.

Lara sat outside the Spearwood home of Mr and Mrs Rosetti. The old man was ignoring the summer hosepipe ban and watering the front yard while his wife swept the driveway. It was heading for lunchtime and it really was too hot to be doing something so futile, but that was just Lara’s point of view. She hadn’t gone home as instructed by the DI. She knew there was no danger of them looking too closely at her for what happened to Colin Graham. John had wrapped all that up: topping up her quota of handcuffs, feeding her an explanation of her part in events, making sure the CCTV coverage of the car park was destroyed or unavailable. He was a real Mr Fixit. But there were some things she couldn’t abrogate to others.

Mr and Mrs Rosetti both looked up as Lara walked down their garden path. Of course they remembered her and welcomed her inside for a cool drink. They sat in a darkened room with photographs of Santo on the sideboard – his life from cradle to grave. Lara told them some of what had really happened: of his courage and high regard among his colleagues, the constant dangers he faced as an undercover officer, of his important role in trying to combat the scourge of drugs and gang-violence, how they could be very, very proud of him.

‘We’ve always been proud of him, Lara.’ Mrs Rosetti’s eyes were shining.

‘Of course,’ said Lara.

‘And now we can finally bury him, after three weeks!’ Mr Rosetti tried to hide his anger. ‘But they won’t give him a full police funeral. No, “Top Secret” they say, so he doesn’t get a hero’s send off like he should.’

Mrs Rosetti placed her hand over his to calm him. ‘A family funeral is fine. It’s what he would want.’ Mr Rosetti shook his head.

Lara looked once again at the photo of Santo graduating from the Academy: fresh-faced, clean-cut, full of hope and pride. She said her goodbyes; they patted her hand and thanked her and they all smiled
through their tears. As she drove away they waved and recommenced the futile sweeping of the already clean driveway and the watering of the front yard in the blinding sun.

Until the results came back, Cato couldn’t be sure and there was no point in taking it further unless he was on firm ground. He needed some clout to hurry things along.

‘Let’s hear it.’ DI Hutchens glanced up from his budget reports or whatever it was that occupied his time these days.

Cato outlined his latest theory on the Mazza–Wellard–Petkovic affair.

Hutchens nodded. ‘The case is with the prosecutors and the few loose ends will be tied up in due course. It’s dropped down my priority list. Why are you still worrying your pretty little head about it?’

He knew the DI needed something new so he told him about the nail gun and the threatening tap on the knee in Myaree.

‘Why didn’t you mention this earlier?’

‘Not sure, sir.’

‘Were you concerned that I might think less of you?’

‘Well. I...’

‘You were right. I think you’re a fucking dickhead. You don’t let these people get away with threatening you. You tell me and we go around there and kick their arses. Who do they think they are?’

‘Your loyalty and protectiveness is heartwarming, sir, but a show of force isn’t necessarily going to neutralise that threat. If anything, it might even convince them they’re onto a winner.’ Cato was also aware that, despite Hutchens’ previous bluster on the matter, nothing had actually happened in regard to Goatee and Eyebrow Stud. ‘Still no sign of Irskine, then?’

‘No, who’d believe such a big ugly bastard could disappear into thin air?’ Hutchens cracked his knuckles in an abstract, menacing way. ‘Does make me wonder why, if he knew her, he didn’t just talk direct to Shellie. Why get you to ask her and Mazza to put the boot boys in the clear? Why go all around the houses? It doesn’t make sense.’

‘Maybe he did ask her direct and she didn’t listen?’

‘If I was a feeble little sheila and the bikies were threatening me, I’d listen.’

Cato ignored the thinly veiled insult. ‘Maybe when we find him we can ask him to share his thinking with us. Meantime we need to keep things moving.’

‘What do you suggest?’

‘A hurry-up from you to the lab would suit all our purposes. We get nearer to the objective truth of the matter and they know where they stand in time for the court appearance.’

‘So we give them what they want, basically?’

‘Yes.’

‘Interesting concept. Forgive me for not being as intellectually astute as you but I still don’t grasp the part where we teach the fuckers a lesson.’

‘I’m sure you’ll think of a way, boss. It’s just a matter of whether it needs to be now or later.’

‘Well, as you’re a friend and a colleague you can go ahead and give the lab a gee-up from me while I meditate on the possibilities.’

‘Thanks, sir.’

‘Don’t mention it. Ever.’

Cato called the lab with a Hutchens-enforced hurry-up then left the office and went down the road for a late lunch. He grabbed a couple of samosas and a fruit juice from a health-food shop, walked down to Esplanade Park and found a shady spot under a Norfolk pine. He checked first for any danger from above. The heat swelled. Kids in the play area sauntered listlessly from swings to monkey bars and back again with no enthusiasm. Cato leaned his head back against the tree and closed his eyes.

Somebody was kicking the soles of his shoes.

‘Wakey, wakey.’

Cato opened his eyes. There was a shadow over him, two in fact. Once his vision adjusted to the glare, he recognised them: his bikie friends from Myaree.

Cato tried to stand but Eyebrow Stud crouched and placed a firm hand on his shoulder. ‘No need to get up.’

He didn’t try. ‘Bryn. Just the man we’ve been wanting to speak to.’

‘Bryn? Nobody calls me that, except my mum.’

‘I hear you and Shellie Petkovic know each other. Old school pals from Collie.’

‘Yeah?’

‘And we’d like to have a chat with you about that.’

‘Call my lawyer. Make an appointment.’

Goatee came closer and leaned against the trunk of the tree, his knee millimetres from Cato’s face. ‘Meantime, how are your inquiries progressing?’

‘As well as can be expected.’

‘What’s that mean?’

‘We’re pursuing several lines of investigation.’

The knee scraped Cato’s cheek. It was encased in grubby denim and smelled of oil, ashtrays and sweat. ‘I heard you were a funny cunt, a way with words.’

Cato noticed they were attracting nervous glances from passers by. Well, they would: two big bikies crowding up on some comparatively puny Chinese office worker in a park in the middle of Fremantle in broad daylight. Cato wondered if anybody would bother to raise the alarm or whether they’d mind their own business while he got stomped to a pulp.

Goatee lit a cigarette and flicked the match at Cato. ‘My advice to you, mate, is to quit the comedy and pull your finger out. We’ve got a court case coming up and we want to have some certainty by then.’

Certainty, a real commodity of late: mining magnates wanted it, beachfront developers wanted it, even outlaw bikies. It was an expensive commodity too; ordinary people couldn’t afford it.

‘Why the urgency? There’ll be a few court hearings before any actual trial.’

‘There’ll be no trial. We’ll be looking at a guilty plea on assault, a few months on the existing sentence, and Bob’s your uncle.’

‘Guilty plea? That sounds like cooperation to me. Isn’t that against the Code?’

Goatee pulled hard on his ciggie. ‘Business is business. We
decide what the Code is and when we abide by it. All you need to do is play your part and nobody gets hurt. Well, no civilians anyway.’

Cato felt Eyebrow Stud’s breath close to his ear. Was he about to bite it off?

‘You might think we stick out like sore thumbs, mate, but we’ve managed to creep up on you twice now. Third time ... unlucky.’

Cato thought it would be a good idea to keep his mouth shut. It worked. Eyebrow Stud patted him on the shoulder, Goatee winked, and they both left. Cato put a call through to the TRG to tip them off about Eyebrow Stud’s general whereabouts but knew he’d be long gone before they got here.

Cato guessed that the Apaches wanted certainty on their two soldiers in Casuarina because they were gearing up for another turf war in the not-too-distant future and needed all the numbers they could muster. He had a pretty good idea who the enemy was too.

‘Hold the front page.’

DI Hutchens was predictably unimpressed. Farmer John was in on the meeting too.

‘Still here, John?’ said Cato. ‘With Graham wrapped up I thought your work would be done.’

‘It was, but your boss wanted some advice on a matter close to home. Personal threats against our officers need to be taken seriously.’

‘Is that your area of expertise? I thought you were Intelligence?’

‘And that’s exactly what you’ve just brought us.’

‘Hardly earth-shattering though. The Apaches and the Trans are always going at each other. Surely you already had wind of this?’

‘Good to have as much objective verification as possible,’ said John. ‘It does sound like they’re planning something more than a border skirmish though.’

‘Border skirmish?’ said Cato.

‘The tit for tat the last few weeks: tattoo-parlour arson,
methlab explosions, home invasions, dealer bashings. Col and his Gangs mates have been busy stirring the pot.’ John grinned. ‘That’s one thing we will miss him for.’

‘Col set up the Willagee bashing?’ said Cato.

‘He was behind it but the Apaches did it. Kept the wheels turning. Good result.’

Cato went over to the window, looked out at the sunshine. ‘Does beating an innocent pregnant teenager into a miscarriage count as a good result these days then? Prick.’

John examined a bit of loose skin on his thumb. ‘I’ll let that pass, given the strain we’ve all been under.’

Hutchens gave Cato a warning glance. ‘So if they’re factoring in Kenny and Danny’s release dates that means it’s a good six to nine months away.’

A nod from John.

DI Hutchens yawned. ‘I think I might be washing my hair that night.’

Cato turned from the window. ‘Their chat with me in Myaree makes more sense now though, doesn’t it?’

‘Explain.’

‘Sure they can put the hard word direct on Shellie to help clear their boys inside, but we’re the ones with real clout. And we’re the ones who can do something about weakening the Trans by arresting Vincent. You generals can decide what to do with all that.’ Cato turned to leave Hutchens’ office. Farmer John stood aside to let him pass.

‘Cheers, Cato,’ he said.

Cato gave no reply.

They finally caught up with her late in the afternoon. She was watching TV: some really obese guy showing people how to cook a healthy dish; he somehow lacked authority. The phone trilled.

‘Lara! At last. It’s Melanie Kim.’ A pause. ‘Human Services? Stress Management Program?’

Lara mouthed an expletive. ‘Hi, Melanie.’

‘How are you doing?’

It was a simple and innocent enough question but Lara could feel the panic symptoms returning. For a while there earlier she’d thought it was all going to be okay. She’d held it together while they grilled her at the office. She held it together while she lied to the Rosettis about the usefulness of their son’s death. She had even begun to think that the meltdown in the supermarket was just a one-off and things were on the up again. But now big fat tears ran down her face and her voice cracked, ‘Good.’

‘It doesn’t sound like it. Look I’ve got an appointment pencilled in for you for Friday but maybe we’ll bring it forward to tomorrow. How does 9.30 suit?’

‘Fine.’

‘Okay, here’s the address, have you got a pen and paper handy to take this down?’

‘No.’

‘No problem, I’ll SMS it to you. We’ll see you tomorrow, okay?’

On TV the dish came out of the oven, it was a kind of pasta bake with vegetables, tuna, and low-fat cottage cheese. There was a close-up of the guy forking some into his mouth. Lara looked at the empty chocolate wrappers on the floor and the cold unfinished cup of instant coffee on the table. She got to the toilet just in time to spew. As she hunched over the bowl and tasted the bile in her throat she wondered bleakly if there would ever be a time when all of this would be over.

Back in the office in the communal kitchen, Cato flicked on the kettle. He wasn’t sure what to make of Farmer John. He might be a ruthless bastard but he didn’t think the man was corrupt. Then again, he’d never thought so of Colin Graham either. They were both involved in areas, Gangs and Intelligence, where there was perhaps more potential for temptation and conflicts of interest. Cato replayed in his mind the part of the conversation in the park that set him wondering.

I heard you were a funny cunt, a way with words.

Goatee’s description. He could have heard it from Col Graham or Farmer John. Col was in with the Apaches anyway and John
no doubt had access to them, it was his job. But it was John who’d used that familiar term that first day they met in a Maccas on South Street.

You’ll have heard of the Trans and the Apaches?’

No, who are they?

Funny cunt.

Cato wasn’t a great believer in coincidences. Plus Cato’s dealings of late had been far more to do with John than Col Graham. So let’s take a cognitive leap and assume Farmer John is talking to the bikies. Did that make him corrupt or was he just using them to achieve certain ends? Cato could try asking him. There were a number of possible outcomes: if John
was
corrupt then Cato could end up dead, or if John was playing a strategic game with the bikies then he could just tell Cato to mind his own business. Or John might even make a clean breast of it. Cato reckoned it at fifty-fifty on options one and two and snowball’s on number three. He’d had worse odds. He left his tea untouched, went over to his boss’s office, knocked and entered.

DI Hutchens looked up, mildly irritated at the interruption. ‘Not now, Cato.’ He registered Cato’s determined expression. ‘What do you want, then?’

Cato nodded towards Farmer John in his usual chair. ‘I want John to tell us all what’s really going on. I want to know why he visited Lara yesterday evening and whether that had anything to do with her having a ready answer for all of our questions this morning. And while he’s on, maybe he could explain the nature of his relationship with the Apaches.’