Bad Seed (16 page)

It didn't take Mundine long to follow through. Hutchens received a text as he was settling down with a glass of merlot to watch News 24 while Mrs Hutchens prodded the roast.

5K wd be a good start

Hutchens texted back.

fuck off

Another one came through. A photo this time. It was of the front of his house, with Mrs Hutchens doing some gardening. The bloke was asking for a slap. Hutchens would be happy to give him one.

OK lets meet

Another picture. A pornographic image and the caption:
Suck mine

Little psycho. Hutchens turned his phone off and answered the cooing call to dinner. ‘Coming, love.'

‘Work?' she said, sliding a plate of lamb and vegies his way.

‘What?'

‘Your phone. Buzzing like billy-o.'

‘Yeah, turned it off now, trivial stuff.'

She looked concerned. ‘Any more chest pains?'

‘Nothing to worry about, Marj. I've got the spray.'

‘That's not the point. You used to only get them now and again. Now it's pretty much every day. You need to get to the doctor.'

He reached across and squeezed her hand. ‘I will, love. Another week or two and this will all be out of the way.'

‘Another week or two and you might be dead.'

‘Okay, I'll call tomorrow and make an appointment.'

The home phone went. Marjorie picked it up. He could hear the yelling from where he was. She handed the phone to him, pale. ‘It's for you.'

It was Mundine. ‘You turned your phone off. Don't fucking ignore me again, fat man! Ever! You hear?'

Cato was called into DI Pavlou's office first thing. She must have heard about his chat with Des O'Neill and wanted to slap him down.

‘Morning, Philip. Coffee?'

There was a plunger of freshly brewed on her desk and a spare couple of mugs. Was it some kind of trap? ‘Sure, thanks.'

She poured him some and pointed at a plate of biscuits. ‘Help yourself.'

There was a knock at the door. Lara joined them, flushed and happy, and dragged up a chair. She was offered coffee too but showed them all her herbal tea. Finally James Blond, hair still wet from the rain and a smell of recent lycra and bike oil about him.

‘Something come up?' said Cato.

Pavlou was beaming. ‘Indeed it has. Lara, tell him.'

‘I'm engaged.' She flashed her ring.

‘Lovely, congratulations,' said Pavlou. ‘But I meant the ACC news.'

‘Right.' Lara reddened. Cato found it cute, he smothered a smile. ‘The passenger list from Mr Li's flight into Perth immediately preceding the Tan murders.' She dispensed copies to the assembled throng. ‘The ACC ran a check on his fellow travellers and got a result.' She referred them to a name highlighted on the list. ‘Yu Guangming is known to the Chinese authorities and has a violent criminal history, including murder.'

‘Don't the Chinese normally execute people who've done that kind of thing?' said Cato.

‘His history isn't formally on the record. He's never actually been caught and convicted of anything. It's what they believe he has been involved in. He also seems to have some kind of protection at a higher level.'

‘And this is a Chinese government agency sharing this with you?'

‘No. It's via our AFP liaison office in Beijing and their Chinese counterparts.'

‘Friend of a friend of a friend.'

‘Now, now.' Pavlou's happy face was slipping.

‘Okay,' conceded Cato, ‘let's assume this unofficial portrait of this guy has some substance. What's his connection to Li?'

And that's where it got interesting.

Cato retired to his office. He had to admit even he was beginning to buy the Major Crime line that Tommy Li had questions to answer about the Tan murders. Approaches would now be made through various diplomatic and other channels to set up an interview with him. Apparently they'd already sussed out his Perth office and, according to them, he wasn't due back in Australia anytime soon.

‘But I thought he told us he was usually over here every few weeks?' Cato had reminded Pavlou.

‘Change in plans, shifting priorities,' said Pavlou drily. His sudden unavailability added to their suspicions.

So why had Cato now been brought into the loop? Was Pavlou feeling confident and therefore more benevolent? Who knows? Chris Thornton popped his head around the door.

‘Sarge? Got a moment?'

Cato followed Thornton to a workstation with two large video monitors with split screens. There were various angles and locations and frozen images of a car: Matthew Tan's BMW.

‘Why the ongoing interest?' said Cato. ‘I thought Matthew had alibis for that night, and his journey home had been corroborated by the cameras?'

‘He has,' said Thornton. ‘Half a dozen friends, happy to swear in court that he was with them during the relevant hours, plus CCTV in a couple of bars to back him up.'

‘So?'

‘So I got one of the civilians to run through Matthew's story one more time and cross-reference it to the supporting evidence. It was a paperwork housekeeping thing really, part of putting him on the backburner. Neatly boxed off until and unless something else comes up to put him back in the frame.'

Cato could only marvel at the anal qualities of Thornton's record-keeping but he really hoped the bloke would get to the point soon. ‘And?'

‘Look at this.' Thornton grabbed a mouse and clicked some keys. ‘His car follows girlfriend Lily's through the lights on Hampton and South. They've gone past amber and Matt triggers the bad-boy camera. There's extra illumination from the big Shell servo on the corner.' He froze the frame.

Cato squinted at the blurred image. A small shadowy bump where there shouldn't have been anything. ‘There's somebody in the back seat?'

‘Looks like it.'

‘And your theory is?'

‘The murderer hitches a ride out of Port Coogee in Matt's Beemer. But is he a stowaway, or is Matt in on it?'

‘Tell me,' said Cato.

Thornton zipped forward towards the end of Matt's journey back to his girlfriend's house in Shelley. CCTV in a servo on Leach Highway catches him buying some cigarettes. The cameras in the forecourt aren't directly on the car. It's half in and half out of shadow and small on the edge of a wide frame. ‘It's like he knew where to park, isn't it?' said Thornton.

‘You've got a suspicious mind.'

Thornton grinned. ‘He makes sure he goes into the servo shop to buy something and the camera gives him an alibi. But look at this.' Thornton zoomed the picture in to the parked car in the distant
background. On the blind side, away from the camera, the rear passenger door opens and a shadow hops out and merges with the rest of the darkness.

‘So we still can't tell from that whether Matt is in on it.'

‘No, sarge. But worth another chat you reckon?'

Hutchens had received notification from the Inquiry registrar that proceedings would reconvene on Monday week as the presiding judge had been called away on pressing family business. Could he confirm that he had received appropriate legal advice and would he be able to continue as per the said schedule? Yes, he just needed to kill David Mundine first. Hell, they were going to try and pin Sinclair's death on him, he may as well do Mundine too and get his money's worth. So he had about two weeks up his sleeve for dealing with the prick. He'd also fixed a doctor's appointment for later that day, there'd been a cancellation and he didn't have much else on – apart from a murder inquiry, a growing backlog of cases from assault through theft to a peculiar upskirting charge in a local department store. Oh, and being stalked and blackmailed by a sociopath. Things were closing in and his chest seemed tighter by the minute. Marjorie was right, he might not see the next two weeks out. But maybe a catastrophic heart attack was a better prospect than jail.

He needed to get a grip. The lawyer had said just blank them, they can't prove a thing. What's the worst that could happen? An adverse finding by the Inquiry and an administrative slap on the wrist? Cato and Major Crime were responsible for the Tan murder case. They could worry about that. The backlog? That never went away. Really the only urgent matters were his chest pains and David Mundine. He dropped by the office to see Cato.

‘I hadn't realised I was so popular.'

‘What?'

‘Everybody wants to talk to me, today.'

‘Enjoy it while it lasts,' Hutchens sniffed. ‘What's happening with the general backlog?'

‘I've farmed out most of the volume stuff to the neighbours over at Murdoch.'

‘Good work. Happy are they?'

‘Do we care?'

‘Not really. What was the upskirting one about?'

‘A bloke got stopped in some boutique on South Terrace taking photos up the skirts of the mannequins.'

‘Is that illegal?'

‘Dunno. Murdoch are on to it. They specialise in saddos.'

Cato updated Hutchens on the Matthew Tan line of inquiry and on Tommy Li and his mystery flying partner.

‘When are you going to see Matthew?'

‘Later today.'

‘Good. Keep it to yourself. See if we can steal a march on Edna Average.'

‘What do you think about the Li thing?'

‘To be fair, if I was in Pavlou's shoes I'd be doing a little dance as well. So what's the plan? Invite Li in for a chat next time he graces these shores?'

‘Far as I can tell they're aiming to pay him a visit.'

‘She'll like that. Apparently the shopping in Shanghai is to die for.'

‘That was cheap and unworthy, if I may say so, boss.'

‘Sorry.' He wasn't.

‘Any developments at your end?'

‘No,' said Hutchens. He paused. ‘What?'

‘You don't look well. Everything okay?'

‘Nothing to worry your pretty little head about.' Hutchens saw he'd gone too far. ‘Thanks for the concern. All will be well in the fullness of time, Cato mate.' He mustered a reassuring smile.

He left Cato and retreated to a vacant workstation to check his emails. Two hours until his doctor's appointment.

When Cato and Chris Thornton pulled up at the Shelley house there was no sign of Matthew's BMW but Lily's i30 was in the
driveway. Cato went to ring the bell and found the front door ajar.

‘Hello?' There was a yap. The yellow-bowed poodle was home. ‘Lily?'

No sound apart from the yapping dog. Cato pushed open the door and stepped across the threshold.

‘Lily? It's me, Philip Kwong. Fremantle Detectives.'

The dog seemed unsure whether to yap, whine, or growl. It sounded like it was coming from upstairs. There was a trail of blood spots on the stair carpet.

Cato took out his gun and Thornton did the same.

‘Lily?'

He edged up the stairs, hugging the wall, half-crouched, eyes straining for any sudden movement, every nerve jangling. Blood rushed through his ears, he wanted it to stop, he wanted to be able to hear anything, everything. There was a rustle and scrape, a patter of steps and the poodle was at the top of the stairs, yapping and growling. Its yellow bow was askew, teeth were bared. There was blood around the muzzle.