Getting Warmer (29 page)

Hutchens, Meldrum, and the TRG turned up about five minutes too late. They found Cato kneeling on the floor of his bedroom cradling his son, tears streaming down his face. They found Lara Sumich bestride Vincent Tran, the latter facedown and deadly still. They found lots of blood.

‘Christ,’ said Hutchens.

Two ambulances arrived a further five minutes later. Even though the hospital was just down the road it had been another busy Friday night. It turned out they only needed the one. Jake was taken away and Cato went with him. The boy would require several stitches in his cheek where the misdirected nail had sliced across the fleshy surface after the gun had been knocked from Vincent’s hand. Vincent himself was, apart from the results of the vicious hand-to-hand with Cato, relatively unscathed. His decision had been to surrender to Lara and go quietly. Either something about the look in her eye told him she meant business – or something about a life locked up had its appeal. Maybe it was the chance to step out of his big brother’s shadow and to be his own man. He was cuffed, stood up, and taken away by the ninjas. Lara re-holstered her Glock.

‘What are you doing here?’ said Hutchens.

‘Good question.’

‘So answer it.’

‘Women’s intuition?’

‘No such thing.’

She weighed that one up and decided it didn’t deserve a response. ‘Okay, how about diligent police work? I had some information for Cato. Thought it might be urgent. I was twiddling my thumbs and going mad at home. Needed to get out.’

‘That’s better,’ said Hutchens.

In some small part, Lara still credited women’s intuition. Call it
what you will, she’d had a strong sense of unease or urgency that she should deliver the message personally.

‘So what was the information?’ said Hutchens.

Lara told him about the prison links between Vincent Tran and Gordon Francis Wellard.

‘Fuck me,’ he said, impressed and thoughtful.

‘How did you know where he lived?’

It wasn’t yet midnight but they decided to strike while the iron was hot, as they say. Vincent Tran himself wasn’t kicking up any fuss and was content to proceed. An air of calm resignation seemed to have settled over him. That could be good news or bad, Lara wasn’t sure yet. Tran’s injuries had been checked and patched up where necessary. He wore a paper suit, his clothes confiscated for forensic testing. While on the run he’d had a number three buzz cut to try to alter his appearance. He ran his hand through like he was still getting used to it. The recording equipment was on, Vincent had declined a lawyer, Hutchens led and Lara was along for the ride.

‘Vincent? You with us?’ Hutchens tapped on the tabletop to get his attention. Vincent’s eyes refocused and he returned from wherever he’d been. ‘How’d you find Detective Kwong?’

Vincent smiled. ‘I followed him home from the police station. Clever, huh?’

‘You mean we’ve been looking all over the metro area for you for the last forty-eight hours and you’re sitting outside the front door of the cop shop?’

‘Over the road, yeah. The multi-storey, we’ve got a long-term parking bay reserved on level two. Overlooks you guys.’

Hutchens shook his head in disgust. They dotted the i’s and crossed the t’s on how and why Vincent went after Cato, and then got down to what Hutchens called brass tacks.

‘The nail gun. Was it you that killed Christos Papadakis?’

‘Yep.’

Hutchens got him to repeat it more formally for the record. ‘Why?’

A shrug. ‘Because I could.’

Lara noticed Hutchens’ fists clench and unclench. They went through the details of how and when.

‘So Mickey Nguyen didn’t do it?’

‘No, Mickey was set up for it. He’d become unreliable.’

‘In what way?’

‘He lacked hundred percent loyalty.’

‘So whose idea was it to kill Mickey, yours or Jimmy’s?’

‘Mine.’ The answer came too quickly.

‘How did you do it?’

‘Poured a bottle of vodka down his throat: voluntarily at first, then with help from me to finish it off. He passed out. I put the old man in the boot of the car, sat Mickey in the front, and torched it. The bushfire coming through must’ve helped confuse things.’

‘Must’ve,’ agreed Hutchens grimly.

More finessing of details for the record. Lara glanced at the clock on the wall behind Vincent: it was heading for one in the morning yet nobody seemed sleepy. Tran wanted to lay all his cards on the table and offer himself up. She knew why. The aim was to keep big brother Jimmy out of the frame: confined to a wheelchair for the rest of his natural, he had enough on his plate.

‘So why this nasty little fetish for nail-gunning people?’ said Hutchens.

A rustle of the paper suit as Vincent leaned forward. ‘I saw it in a film. Looked cool.’

‘Lovely. And Jimmy was up for letting you do all that creepy stuff? Doesn’t seem like very smart business practice to me.’

‘Jimmy didn’t know anything about it.’

‘Do you expect me to believe that?’

‘Yes.’ It came out as a challenge: take what I’m offering and lay off him.

‘So there’s nothing deep and meaningful about the nail gun? No childhood traumas you’re working through?’

‘No, it’s a tool, plain and simple.’

‘What about the pig?’

Vincent rolled his eyes. ‘Fair cop. I confess. I also killed the pig.’

‘Why?’

‘It gave me a funny look.’ So did Hutchens. Tran explained. ‘Pigs are a good substitute for humans when testing stuff like that. They use them to train forensics people.’

‘How do you know this shit?’

‘The internet.’

‘Where did you get the pig from?’

‘Market.’ Another funny look from Hutchens. ‘A farmer, out Wickepin way.’

‘Why did you bury him down at Beeliar?’

‘The farmer or the pig?’

Hutchens looked alarmed. ‘You tell me.’

Vincent was enjoying himself. ‘The pig was a her. She was a bit old so we couldn’t have cooked her up, too tough, and it would have been a bugger pulling all those nails out.’

Hutchens leaned forward. Lara noticed pearls of sweat around his temples and the look of a man who’s just felt a tug on a long-dead line.

‘Yeah, but why Beeliar?’

When Cato woke he couldn’t move. The sun blazed through the window onto his pillow. He’d forgotten to close the curtains. He tried twisting his head to look at the bedside alarm clock but his neck was locked. He used an arm to lever himself over and his whole body complained. It was still only just past six. He’d had about four hours sleep.

Cato couldn’t go home: his house was a crime scene and Duncan Goldflam and his crew wouldn’t be releasing it for a while yet. Jake had been stitched, dosed up with as many painkillers as his little body would allow, and sent home with his mum. He may or may not be scarred for life, time would tell. Words couldn’t describe the look Jane had given Cato and he wouldn’t be surprised if it developed into a Family Court matter. A room had been booked for him down at The Esplanade hotel. The receptionist had taken a look at his bruised and battered face and his bloodstained clothes and summoned security. Things ran smoother once he’d flashed his police ID and quoted the reservation number he’d been texted.

Cato pulled the sheet over his head and slowly and painfully turned away from the sun. He needed more sleep. His mobile went. Caller ID: Hutchens.

‘You awake?’

‘No.’

‘Good. How you feeling?’

‘Shit.’

‘Shame. Got some interesting news for you. Up for a coffee?’

‘Is it important?’

‘Wouldn’t disturb you if it wasn’t, mate.’

‘Where are you?’

‘Down at Reception. See you in five?’

‘Beeliar?’

‘That’s what he reckons.’ Hutchens took a sip of his flat white and licked his lips appreciatively.

Even though it was Saturday morning, the DI was dressed formally for another working day and he’d been unable to hide his frown when Cato showed up in T-shirt and shorts. Somebody had the wherewithal to arrange for an overnight bag to be left for Cato at the hotel last night. He was obliged to wear whatever had been packed for him. They’d left the hotel and strolled, or in Cato’s case limped, a hundred metres up Essex Street to the X-Wray Cafe. The place still carried disturbing memories of an earlier encounter with Dieudonne but you couldn’t fault the coffee. Hutchens had gone to the counter to do the ordering: Cato’s battered face was likely to put people off their breakfasts.

‘I don’t buy it.’

‘Why not?’

‘I saw the look on Wellard’s face when the cadaver dog started barking. Gordy wasn’t expecting anything because it was a deliberate wild-goose chase as far as he was concerned.’

‘Maybe he wasn’t expecting anything to be found in that particular spot where he took us.’

Cato pinched the bridge of his nose and squinted against the glare of the early morning sun. ‘Sorry, I’m not a hundred percent right now. Take me through it again.’

‘No worries, mate.’ Hutchens was unnervingly good-natured today. With Colin Graham dead and Dieudonne and Vincent Tran in custody, the DI’s clear-up rate must have gone through the roof. Between them the trio had been responsible for most of the major crime in the metro area for the last month. Hutchens was a one-man Safer Streets success story. ‘Vincent shared a remand cell in Hakea with our good friend Wellard. Two psycho soul mates they were: swapping tips and recipes, the best dumpsites, bargains on
nail guns, effective choke holds, that kind of thing.’

Cato was getting depressed. Or rather, even more depressed.

‘He reckons Wellard recommended Beeliar to him. Told him about a car access track through the back of someone’s property, about a hundred metres away from the main public gate.’

Cato was taking notice now. One of the things that hadn’t gelled that day was how they’d all had to troop through a turnstile to get in there and just how the hell were you meant to get a body through that? This private vehicle track was a lot nearer than the others they knew about. Now the area Wellard took them to was a lot more viable. ‘Go on.’

‘You’re thinking about the turnstile, right?’

‘Yeah?’

‘I thought it was a bit funny at the time, too, but let him lead us his merry dance. As agreed, Wellard was setting the agenda that day and he always was a bit of a joker.’

‘Yeah, Shellie reckons he was a laugh a minute.’

Hutchens frowned. ‘Poor Shell, maybe she’ll get her answer now after all these years.’ He brightened again. ‘Anyway Tranny reckons Wellard knew so much about that spot that the body has to be there and we’ve just got to get the diggers and radar in and Bob’s your proverbial.’

Cato recalled his son’s history lesson: Fremantle, part of the ancient Aboriginal district of Beeliar, a place of crying, a place for funerals. Maybe Wellard’s game was to take them to the right place but the wrong spot? ‘So Wellard didn’t draw him a mud map?’

‘Not as such, no.’

‘Did Vincent mention Star Swamp?’

‘Yeah, he said Wellard told him he’d buried another one up there.’ Hutchens seemed a little hurt and disappointed. ‘You’re not convinced it’s Beeliar, you’re still hanging on to your Star Swamp theory?’

Cato shrugged and conceded some ground. ‘I suppose Beeliar’s the best lead we’ve had so far. So what are you going to do about it?’

‘Monday, get a couple of GPR teams out there covering the area
from the drive-in track he mentioned, along to where we were on day one with Wellard.’

Cato did the sums: at least a hundred long by God knows what wide. ‘That’s a big area.’

‘I’m also getting a survey plane to do a fly-over with one of those special whiz-bang cameras that shows up all that shit.’

Cato raised an eyebrow. ‘Expensive.’ He decided to push his luck. ‘As you’re paying anyway, while they’re up there maybe they could swing round and take a few snaps over Star Swamp as well?’

Hutchens twisted his mouth and nodded. ‘What price justice, Cato mate?’ Cato couldn’t argue with that. ‘Speaking of which.’ Hutchens chucked an envelope on the table between them. ‘Lab results on Stephen Mazza came through. You might find them interesting.’ Cato did a quick scan. They were. He looked up expectantly. The DI pointed at Cato’s ‘Waves not Walls’ T-shirt. ‘You might want to change the threads first, dude.’

‘And this man has admitted to it?’

‘Yes.’ Lara saw the old woman’s eyes cloud over. Mrs Papadakis was dressed in black, again. Maybe that was all she would wear now until she died. The back room of the Northbridge restaurant was unlit but there were thin slashes of sunlight through the blinds.

‘What will happen to him?’ Mrs Papadakis gazed at the floor, perhaps afraid of the answer.

‘He will probably spend the rest of his life in prison.’

‘Probably?’

‘Yes.’

The old woman nodded. ‘Thank you.’

‘There is nothing to thank me for.’

‘I know.’

Lara wondered if she should ask what Mrs Papadakis would do now but it seemed like such an inane question. Instead she stood to leave. ‘If there’s anything I can do.’

‘I think you’ve done enough. Goodbye.’

As she drove back down the freeway Lara felt the tightness
return to her chest. This was how it was now. The mechanics of the job were fine: the phone calls, the files, the meetings, even the encounters with occasional danger. She knew she was a capable officer, a very capable officer. Christ, she’d even saved Cato’s life last night. No. It was the stopping and the thinking and the trying to make sense of it all later. The unrelenting misery, stupidity and waste: that was just too hard to bear. The blood, the pain, the victims, those left behind: their worlds shattered into tiny sharp fragments of shrapnel that buried themselves too deep to dig out.

Lara became aware of tears on her face. She’d slowed down to forty or fifty k and other cars on the freeway were flashing their lights, giving her the finger, honking their horns. She found a gap in the traffic and took the off-ramp at Canning Bridge, pulling into a petrol station near the Raffles Hotel. Lara took some deep breaths until her vision cleared and something like equilibrium returned. She reached for her mobile and keyed in a number.

‘Dr Kim?’

‘No need to be so formal, Melanie is fine. How are you, Lara?’ That question again. ‘Sounds like you’re ready for another appointment?’

‘Yes,’ she steadied her voice, ‘I am.’

Stephen Mazza must have been waiting for this moment to arrive. There was something about his expression and his general poise: like a yoke had been shed, or a boil lanced. He’d had another run-in with the prison bikies and their friends: his face bore fresh bruises and scrapes. Cato tenderly fingered his own wounds: they could have swapped war stories. The DNA and other test results confirmed Mazza didn’t just come into incidental contact with the ISD – improvised stabbing device. The trace patterns on the toothbrush effectively showed that he was the one who shoved it through Wellard’s eye and into the brain.

‘So how come you knew how to do that?’ said Hutchens. ‘Precision brain surgery, bit specialised isn’t it?’

‘I shared a cell for about a year with a bad doctor. He taught me all kinds of stuff.’

‘Ah,’ said Hutchens. ‘The university of life.’

And death, thought Cato.

Hutchens pushed on. ‘Why all the bullshit? Why not just fess up? You must have known we’d get there eventually. You must have known the bikies weren’t going to put their hands up for your dirty work?’

‘That all suggests it was premeditated.’

Hutchens sat back, hands behind head. ‘We’re all ears.’

‘When I found Wellard he was still alive. There was a half-chance he would survive. I only made the decision there and then to finish him.’

‘What, you just happened to have the weapon with you?’

‘This is Casuarina. It’s the way we live.’

‘Puts a whole new spin on “don’t forget your toothbrush”, doesn’t it?’ said Hutchens.

‘I knew Wellard was due for a kicking. I was there, right place, right time. The opportunity presented itself. I didn’t think about what would follow. I just wanted to try and get away with it for as long as possible.’

‘How did you know he was due for a kicking?’

‘Because I arranged it.’

‘We hear otherwise. Shellie told us she arranged it with a bikie mate.’

‘No. She’s making it up to protect me.’

Neat, thought Cato. He gets Shellie out of the frame and the bikies off his back in one fell swoop.

Hutchens had a humour-me look about him. ‘Okay, so you arranged it for Shellie?’

‘Not directly. She didn’t ask me. She told me about her unhappiness, her distress. I acted off my own bat.’

‘Bullshit.’

Mazza shrugged. ‘Do you want to hear me or not?’ Hutchens waved his fingers obligingly. ‘I was due out within the next year or so. I hoped to get away with it. I was wrong. Nothing premeditated. Nobody knew about it except me.’

Cato gave Hutchens a sideways look and was given nodded permission to have his two cents worth.

‘If it wasn’t premeditated how come you’ve been doing your damnedest to stay close to Wellard for at least the last year when you could have been in a cushy pre-release joint by now?’

Mazza smiled. ‘Fair cop. But staying close because I wanted to do him doesn’t mean I ever got the nerve or the opportunity to carry it out.’

‘But you stayed patient anyway until your day came.’

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

Mazza tilted his head. ‘You know the answer already, I reckon.’

‘We need it for the tape,’ said Cato.

Mazza sighed, his eyes drifted to a spot on the blank wall. ‘Briony is my daughter.’

He was right; Cato did already know that. It was the other half of the requested lab results, a match with Briony’s DNA retrieved from samples from her hairbrush and toothbrush and filed away for any future body find.

‘So you killed Gordon Wellard because you believed him responsible for the death and disappearance of your daughter Briony Petkovic?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you insist that Shellie Petkovic was unaware of your intentions and she did not specifically attempt to persuade you or anyone else to harm Wellard?’

‘That’s right.’

Hutchens turned to Cato. ‘You coaching him or what?’

Cato felt oddly at peace. ‘Just trying to get the facts straight one last time, sir.’

‘You looking to get Shellie off the hook, then?’ Hutchens had a half-smile in place.

They were on Rockingham Road driving past Phoenix Shopping Centre. It reminded Cato of something else he wanted to do before all this was over. ‘Whether she’s in it up to her neck or innocent and ignorant, the question has always been – is justice served by pursuing her?’

‘Thank you, Rumpole.’ Hutchens popped a mint and offered one to Cato who accepted. ‘That stuff should always be left to the judges, the juries, the prosecutors’ office and the pollies. It’s not our call.’

‘But we are in charge of compiling the prosecution brief. We have nothing to suggest conspiracy to murder or assault apart from a vague “woe is me” on Shellie’s part.’

‘Come on, it was more premeditated than that. What about those letters she fabricated?’

‘Wasting police time, perverting the course of justice. Products of a disturbed and distressed mind: a fine or suspended sentence at most I would have thought.’

‘Got it all worked out haven’t you?’

‘Just thinking of the paperwork and the PR, boss.’

‘Now you’re speaking my language.’ Hutchens reclined his seat, admired the view of the southern suburbs, and let out a soft chuckle. ‘Heard the latest on Safer Streets?’

Uh-oh. ‘What?’

‘Last night: while you were sleeping. Riot squad gets called to a party in Mount Pleasant. Usual bullshit. Hundreds of dickheads, broken bottles, trampled begonias, et cetera.’

‘And?’

‘Hosted by the Police Minister’s son.’ Hutchens barked out a laugh. ‘The government is reassessing its priorities as we speak. The Stiffies have been put on the backburner.’ He turned on the radio and found some old pop music. Simple Minds. ‘Promised You A Miracle’.

It was going to be yet another warm day but the reception from Jane was frosty. She nodded over her shoulder.

‘He’s out the back, lying on the trampoline. Don’t be too long and don’t upset him.’

Cato smiled through his face-ache and walked over the threshold, down the passageway through the East Fremantle house he used to share with Jane and Jake. Nothing much had changed. Same polished floorboards, smell of flowers and baking and air freshener. Simon the Boyfriend was sitting on a kitchen stool reading the weekend papers and sipping coffee.