Getting Warmer (6 page)

It was midafternoon and Cato still had about two more hours of dodging any task that might come between him, Jake, and Fremantle Cracker Night. He logged on and acted like he was doing
something important. Hutchens’ shadow fell across his desk.

‘Busy?’

Cato held up a hand while he concentrated on his computer screen. ‘Just digesting some fascinating statistics that I need to present to the Safer Streets Task Force on Friday. Did you know somebody in WA gets assaulted every six minutes?’

‘And he’s getting sick of it, right?’ Hutchens was out of sorts. ‘Your old mate Colin. What’s he up to?’

‘Up to?’

‘Getting cosy with Lara. Hanging around like he owns the place. Being smug.’

‘Didn’t you invite him in?’

‘After a fashion.’

‘What’s that mean?’

‘I accepted Gangs’ strong advice that I should ask for a loan of somebody. He volunteered.’

‘Very commendable,’ said Cato. ‘He’s experienced, knows the territory, should be an asset.’

‘I wanted a yes man, not a conniving tosspot.’

‘Bit early to write him off?’

‘Never too early to take a dislike to somebody.’

‘He gets results.’

‘Yeah? So how come those gangsters keep turning up on
The West
social pages with a glass of Moet and a WAG in a posh frock? How come they’re not eating gruel in chokey?’

‘I doubt that’s down to him.’

‘Probably not but I still don’t like the prick.’

‘Well you could always send him packing and give me some proper work to do instead of this ... stuff.’

Hutchens smiled grimly. ‘Teamwork, Cato, that’s the thing.’

Cato copied and pasted another statistical tract and clicked the print button. ‘Did you know that as many as two out of three burglaries and bag-snatchings in the Fremantle area in the last six months are attributable to that gang of street kids that hang out at the car park in Cantonment?’

‘That’s the spirit, Cato. Round ’em up, beat the crap out of them and shoot the ringleaders. It’ll look good at the next committee meeting. Big tick from the Premier.’

‘Love to, but it’ll have to wait until tomorrow.’ Cato made a show of checking the time. ‘Cracker Night with my son. Non-negotiable.’

‘How was your kebab?’ said Cato.

Jake shrugged and nodded and took a swig of Coke. They were sitting in the window of Ali Baba’s on South Terrace: the light fading and the crowds building. Jake seemed to find everything mildly interesting, except his dad. Year 6 and the boy was already tall, inherited both from Cato and Jane, and his face wore an aloof, self-contained expression. They disposed of their wrappers and crossed the road down Essex Street towards Esplanade Park, following the throng. The park, as expected, was chockers with families, rugs, picnic chairs, Aussie flags, glow-sticks, kids running amok. Cato found a space under a Norfolk pine, unpacked two camp chairs from their sausage bags, and parked himself. Half an hour to blast off, he wondered how this spot was still free so late in the day. He felt a splatter on his ear and shoulder and realised why. Above them a pink and grey galah shook its tail and resettled. Jake was smiling, at last.

‘Bird shit is meant to be good luck,’ said Cato wiping himself down.

‘Looks like you’ll be having lots of it,’ said Jake.

‘So how’s the piano going?’

‘Gave it up, it’s boring.’

Cato held onto his open, non-confrontational face. ‘Really? When? Mum never mentioned it.’

‘Why should she?’

‘No reason,’ said Cato airily. ‘Taking up anything else?’

‘Electric guitar. Simon’s in a band, he’s teaching me some cool stuff.’

Simon. Jane’s new boyfriend. ‘That’s great,’ said Cato.

‘He’s got a Gibson.’

‘Wow.’

Night had fallen. Anticipation crackled in the air. Wasamba moved through the crowd, drumming, whistling and generally adding to the racket. Seagulls squawked and Aussies Oi, Oi, Oied. Jake, in spite of his pre-teen coolness, allowed his elbow to touch Cato’s. They sat in companionable silence and took it all in. The radio-host MC announced that it was just two minutes to Cracker Night ignition.

There was movement a few metres to the right, pushing and shoving and raised voices. Cato could see a gang of youths in Bintang singlets and one with an Aussie flag on his T-shirt and the words ‘Born and Bred’. They’d formed a circle: somebody in the middle of them, the target of their aggression. Cato heard the words ‘Fuck off, we’re full’. Not now, not near me, thought Cato. He knew there were security guards and uniformed police doing their rounds, they could deal with it.

The commotion built and suddenly a yell.

‘He’s got a knife!’

A figure raced past.

‘Jake, stay here and don’t move. I’ll be back.’

Cato turned to his picnic neighbours, a couple with a toddler, and asked them to keep an eye on Jake. Then he gave chase.

Even in the dimness and the chaos he could have sworn that it was the same African bloke he’d encountered at X-Wray Cafe on Sunday. If so, then the Aussie Born and Bred gang had picked on the wrong man. He was heading towards Marine Terrace and the Esplanade Hotel and from there he could disappear into the warren of Fremantle back streets. He was about twenty metres ahead of Cato and the gap was widening. Cato cursed the crowds, the dark, and his lack of recent exercise. The playground loomed, parents still pushing their kids on the swings in the half-light. The fireworks countdown had started, everybody in unison – ten, nine, eight ... Cato dodged the swinging kids and narrowly avoided a pram. Seven, six, five ... Up ahead the African lunged at someone who’d tried to grab him and lost precious seconds. Three, two, one ... the world exploded.

The crowd oohed and aahed and looked skywards. Cato followed
his man across Marine Terrace into the West End, colours bursting above. The buildings were grand and ornate, mainly three-storey, dating back to the early days of the prospering port, and now mostly occupied by Notre Dame University. Here and there an opening into a backyard, an alley blocked by a barred gate, a burst of light from a secured keycard entry into luxury apartments. Cato was aware he was running out of puff, worried about leaving Jake on his own, and now he’d lost sight of his target. He stopped and tried to listen.

There it was, a scrape and the sound of laboured breathing. Not his own.

The sky popped and cascaded in orange and green. Three hundred metres away he could hear the hubbub of music and a large crowd enjoying itself on the Esplanade. Here there was the beginnings of a breeze, muffled rattlings, and two men gasping for air. The street was deserted, cars filled every available space either side, an empty can rolled along the gutter. Cato found himself at the opening to a small courtyard leading to a row of mews-style cottages. Old stone, plenty of greenery, and too many doors to choose from.

‘Another minute or so and this place will be crawling with police.’

Nothing. Even the breathing had stopped.

‘You stabbed one of our colleagues the other day. I don’t fancy your chances when we haul you out of there.’

A massive white globe burst and fizzed overhead followed by the boom. Cracker night was heading for its climax.

‘Let me take you in. Keep it simple, keep it easy. Nobody gets hurt.’

Cato didn’t believe it himself. Even if they got as far as the lockup without any trouble, Cato knew that once he signed off and left, the tasers and the batons would come out and it would be party time.

A rustle amongst the foliage and there he was. Slightly shorter than Cato remembered: incredibly thin and his skin shiny with perspiration, reflecting the colours of the night as it flashed and exploded all around them. He stood, Reebok’d feet slightly apart, face expressionless, a knife in his right hand. He had already noted that Cato was unarmed and he stepped forward casually. Cato felt
the knife slide into him, dimly aware of how stupidly easy and quick it had been. No drawn-out danse macabre, no ducking and weaving. Just a swift and casual delivery of death.

Both men had their hands locked on the knife handle: one to push it in deeper, the other trying to prevent it. Warm liquid splashed on his fingers and Cato knew it was his own blood. He smelled the breath of his assailant and noticed the flash of his teeth.

‘Do not struggle, my friend. Accept it.’ A soft voice, almost apologetic.

The knife was tearing upwards and twisting. Cato headbutted his attacker: hearing the crunch of gristle and, beyond that, the sound of approaching steps and voices. Cato shed a tear for his abandoned son and slipped to the ground as the last of the rockets shattered the sky and the blasts faded to silence.

Lara Sumich was on her early morning run when she saw the crimescene tape a block away from her home. A grog-fuelled Australia Day bashing, no doubt. She kept her head down, hoping not to be recognised by the duty crew, and kept on running.

She followed her usual route along the bike path past the multistorey boat parks and repair yards, the sailing club, and down to the old Coogee power station. The tall waterfront apartment blocks at South Beach cast a welcome shadow over the running track. The ocean was once again blue and flat, the surface showing faint ripple traces of a strengthening easterly. A pod of dolphins broke through about a hundred metres out and two horses and their riders cooled in the shallows after a beach canter. A dog chased a tennis ball into the water. Another perfect day. So why was it she felt like punching somebody?

She was no nearer to finding out what was really behind Santo Rosetti’s undercover job yet here she was on the verge of wrapping up his murder and putting away Jimmy Tran, a major player in the local drug scene: a value-added scalp, all courtesy of DS Colin Graham. Her blood pounded at the memory of him from last night as the fireworks flared outside her window and he buried himself inside her. She knew he was manipulating her in some way, leading her along, but she still didn’t know why. In the meantime, she could handle him and she could think of worse ways of being used. So why the urge to punch somebody?

Whatever it was that was boiling inside fuelled a sprint to the power station gates. They needed more to stitch up Jimmy Tran over the next few days: some forensics, a DNA match on the sperm found in Rosetti’s mouth: blood, fibres, witnesses, et cetera. She looked forward to working closely with DS Colin Graham to find
it all, as they surely would. Was he really her ticket into a specialist squad like Gangs? Maybe. Manipulation could be a two-way street. On the way back she sprinted the last hundred metres along the bike path to the Round House, the colony’s first public building – a prison of course. Bending hands on knees to steady her breath, she noticed the crime-scene tape again and wandered across to check it out. That’s when she heard the news about Cato.

By the end of the day they had a DNA match on the semen: it was indeed Jimmy Tran who had been Santo Rosetti’s special friend. The obvious proximity of the blowjob had also put mutual traces of skin, fluids and fibres on both men. But there was no indication of any blood on any of Tran’s clothing and, given the mess and arterial blood spray, there should have been. They’d recovered what seemed to be the same white T-shirt with black trim he’d been wearing that night and had tested all his other clothing, footwear and his washing machine filter. Nothing. No murder weapon either.

Mickey Nguyen, Jimmy’s henchman who had provided them with the tip about the rooftop entrance to the club, had been put under intense pressure by DS Graham to go further and comprehensively dob in his boss. It wasn’t working. Even the leverage of Mickey’s incarcerated dad wasn’t enough: maybe the consequences of transgressing would be too great for all of the family. Fair enough. Who wanted to end up on YouTube Tran-style? So, they could provide means, motive and opportunity with Jimmy Tran and they had some objective forensic backup, but a good lawyer could still show it all to be circumstantial and not beyond reasonable doubt.

‘A Chupa Chup in a toilet cubicle does not a murderer make,’ said DI Hutchens rather poetically and Lara nodded glumly.

‘With his record it should be enough. The jury just needs to take one look at him.’ Colin Graham leaned against the wall, relaxed, arms folded.

‘Meaning?’ said Hutchens.

‘The tide is turning. People are sick of ethnic gangs terrorising society. They want us to put a stop to it.’

‘Thinking of going into politics, Colin?’

‘Not yet. Unfinished business.’

Hutchens shook his head. ‘It might suit you to put all this down to ethnic gangs, mate, but the stats show that for every dickhead Tran there’s ten drongo Smiths. And most of the scumbag Apaches are dinky-di. Has Gangs got lazy and racist, or is it just you?’

‘Didn’t quite figure you for a bleeding heart, sir.’ A smile to disarm any charge of insubordination.

‘Yeah? Well you’re meeting all my expectations, Col.’

Graham held Hutchens’ gaze. Lara pictured proud elks locking antlers on the high plains, or was it more like two feral old goats banging heads in the bush?

‘Okay, charge him then,’ said Hutchens, stalking back to his office. ‘And make sure your name is all over the paperwork, DS Graham. Credit where credit’s due.’

‘What did you think you were doing?’

‘What?’

Cato had lost track of time. Outside his hospital window it was dark. Early dark or late dark he couldn’t tell, he kept falling asleep at odd times. The pain and the painkillers were fogging his senses. DI Hutchens had an end-of-day look about him so it must be evening. As to what day, that was anybody’s guess.

‘Tackling an armed man, alone and unarmed. Think you’re Batman or something?’

‘I recognised him from the stoush at the X-Wray. Couldn’t resist.’ Cato tried to find a more comfortable position. There wasn’t one.

Hutchens held thumb and forefinger slightly apart. ‘Missed your vital organs by that much, dickhead.’

Cato realised this was Hutchens’ way of showing he cared. He didn’t want things to get too emotional. ‘What’s happening with Wellard? Any developments?’

‘Pressed the pause button. No urgency, Shellie’s not jumping up and down about the package and Wellard isn’t going anywhere.’

‘Safer Streets?’

Hutchens waved in the direction of Cato’s wound. ‘You didn’t
need to go that far to get out of it. I’ve delegated it away until you’re better.’

Silver linings. ‘Who to?’

‘The new boy, Thornton.’

A recent Eastern States blow-in whose ambition outweighed his intellect: a perfect fit for the task at hand. ‘Is he up to the responsibility?’

‘He’s from Sydney. Got a degree.’

‘True.’

Hutchens’ Hawaii-5-0 mobile chirped to life. Smartphones might come and go but Hutchens’ ring tone had remained a constant. Cato took a sip of water and wondered how Jake was dealing with his father’s near-death experience.

‘Fuck me,’ said Hutchens, a half-smile curling his lips as he wrapped up the call.

‘Good news?’

‘Could be. That knife they found sticking in you. We’ve got fingerprints and a blood match.’

Cato winced. ‘I could have probably figured out the blood part myself.’

‘Not so fast, Cato-san, our knife man has been busy. It’s also got traces of Santo Rosetti’s blood and DNA on it. You’d think the killer would at least wash his knife properly between stabbings.’

Cato paled. ‘But that means...’

Hutchens nodded. ‘Two things, mate: DS Colin Graham is fucked, and you better gets some tests done. Rosetti wasn’t the most hygienic of chaps. Turns out he had hep C.’