Bad Seed (32 page)

‘It was a different era. These things were often overlooked to our collective shame.' Hutchens lowered his eyes. ‘If I knew then what I know now, of course I would have acted differently. As it was, I was an overworked and stressed-out cop with too much on my plate. David was a troubled kid.' He shot a glance towards Mundine in the public gallery. The young man had reverted to quivering victim mode – a remarkable piece of theatre. Hutchens added a little cameo of his own, he allowed his lower lip to tremble. ‘I'm sorry.'

He thought he caught the ghost of a smile from Mundine. In the row behind, Crouchie was miming silent applause.

Joan Peters cast her eyes around the room, a throw-net trawling for sympathy and common sense.

Then she handed the floor over to Andrew Burke QC.

‘You're a busy and important man, Detective Inspector. I think we all appreciate the demanding job of frontline policing.'

Hutchens didn't respond.

‘But if you could bear with us for a while longer I'd like to go through the sequence of events leading up to that night in October nineteen ninety-seven.'

‘Be my guest.'

So they trekked once again through the territory already covered by the testimony of David Mundine, the hostel office manager Carol Ransley, and retired police officer Andy Crouch. They were all there in the public gallery, they wouldn't miss this for the world.

‘And you have no recollection of your whereabouts that evening of October twenty-first, nineteen ninety-seven?'

‘The record shows that I attended a call-out to a disturbance at the Mundaring Weir Hotel but I have no personal recollection of that. I've attended lots of call-outs to pub fights over the years.'

‘And you have no recollection of making that phone call to Mr Crouch?'

‘No.'

‘He indicated that he believed you might have been intoxicated at the time.'

‘That's what he says in his journal, yes.'

‘Did you have a problem with alcohol during that period?'

‘I was a younger man, an occasional heavy drinker, in those days it went with the job.' Hutchens shrugged. ‘We all get older, we grow up, leave behind the misdemeanours of youth.'

‘Of course we do.' Burke checked his paperwork. ‘And you must have been particularly motivated to do so, having received two cautions and a reprimand over the course of the preceding six months?'

‘That's right,' said Hutchens.

‘Your superiors have noted, on the record, quote, “that while DS Hutchens has an excellent track record for getting results, of late his excessive alcohol consumption has increasingly impaired his professionalism”. Unquote. What did they mean by that?'

‘Probably what it says. But if you're after details you'll need to ask them. To my knowledge there are no further such cautions or reprimands on my record.'

‘Apart from the Beaton problem.'

He should have seen that coming, really. The wrongful conviction of a man for murder which had seen him transferred to Albany and Cato demoted into Stock Squad. For the benefit of the Inquiry and the public gallery and, of course, the news media, Burke replayed it in all its sordid detail.

Hutchens squared his shoulders. ‘My recollection of the internal inquiry at the time noted a general cultural and systemic problem which contributed to the inappropriate procedures and processes. Problems which have since been addressed.'

‘And you were at the heart of those cultural and systemic problems, were you not?'

At this point Joan Peters stood up and asked how relevant any of this was to the matter of an inquiry into sexual abuse at the Hillsview Hostel during the late 1990s.

The Inquiry chair concurred and asked Burke to get to the point.

‘My point is that there was an officer with an ongoing record of alcoholism, unprofessionalism, and corrupt practices at the heart of both the inaction on the abuse allegations and the subsequent disappearance of Peter Sinclair.'

‘That's a bit harsh,' said Hutchens. But he sensed victory, of sorts. It was all fluff and mudslinging but, without a body, they were fucked. They had nothing. He exchanged a look with Joan Peters. She knew it too, the twinkle said it all.

While he waited for Driscoll to get back to him, Cato delegated some jobs out to the minions. The weekend had thrown up the usual assaults, drug charges, thefts, and such – the volume crime that never went away and remained the essence of his job. Deb Hassan was back on duty, duly counselled about her people skills and awaiting the result of a professional standards inquiry into her tasering of Zac Harvey's mum. The likely outcome would be an official reprimand
and if that didn't suit Mrs Harvey, she'd have to take civil action to remedy the matter. Cato had a job for Deb.

‘Can you line up the Soong sisters, Lily and Matilda? Separately. I'd like to hear precisely what triggered Matthew's recent hissy fit.' He brought her up to date with developments. ‘Maybe it was just soggy toast or lukewarm coffee. Maybe there's something worth a look.'

‘You haven't given up on him, then?'

‘No, not yet. If they're wondering, just tell them we're tidying up the paperwork. Take Chris Thornton with you. Just in case.'

‘Just in case what?'

‘Occ Health and Safety. It's a toss-up. Matthew might hit you with a spanner or you might zap him with your ray gun. Just covering my back, I don't need the paperwork.'

‘Thanks, sarge,' she muttered on the way out.

His desk phone went.

‘Is there a guy called Kwong there?' The caller sounded about thirteen.

‘That's me, who wants to know?'

Her name was Tracey and she was in fact a senior corrections officer from Bandyup. She'd gone through the visitors log and tracked him down. ‘Patricia Mundine, one of our clients, remembered talking to some Chinese bloke last week, that'd be you I guess, and she wanted us to pass on a message.' All of Tracey's sentences ended on an upward questioning inflection.

‘Go on.'

‘She said the bloke's name was Paul.'

‘Which bloke?'

‘The old boyfriend. She said you'd know. Something to do with the son?'

‘Paul what?'

‘Just Paul.'

He thanked her, gave her his mobile contact as an alternative, and ended the call. One day another synapse might spark and Tricia would remember Paul's surname. Or maybe not. Cato got on with his life.

Hutchens had a celebratory lunch with Joan Peters. They found a Thai place in the city and got stuck into the massaman and the green chicken. He even stumped up for two glasses of SSB from Marlborough.

‘Cheers,' he said.

‘Cheers, dear.' They clinked.

‘You were right. They had nothing.'

‘I don't think you're out of the woods yet. They could still bring out an adverse finding against you.'

He grunted and forked some beef. ‘Least of my worries.'

Peters looked concerned. ‘Why's that, dear?'

Hutchens smiled reassuringly. ‘Nothing. I think I'm on the home straight now.'

She didn't seem convinced. ‘Maybe you should take a few days leave? You've been through a lot of stress lately.'

‘I've been thinking the same thing myself,' he beamed. ‘Few days in the country, do me the world of good.'

Peters lifted her glass again. ‘I'll drink to that.'

Their phones buzzed simultaneously. They took their respective calls.

‘Fuck,' said Hutchens after a moment.

‘Shit,' said Peters, round about the same time.

Driscoll got back to Cato way earlier than expected.

‘Nothing.'

‘Nothing?'

‘Yup.'

Cato didn't believe it and he told him so.

‘Don't blame you, mate. I don't believe it either.'

‘There has to be something, however banal or innocuous.'

‘I know.'

‘So?'

‘It's piqued my interest. I've seen this kind of thing before. There's a black PR company based in Shanghai. Its name translated means something like “Born Free”.'

Driscoll explained. Black PR companies offered a service probably only possible somewhere like China. Officials fearing an impending corruption inquiry could pay to have themselves deleted from the internet, to clear up their reputations and be reborn, free. But it wasn't cheap. Money was required to bribe webpage editors and if it happened to be a government site the fee would of course be higher. Censorship notices, real or fake, could be issued to give the deletion an official-seeming imprimatur. All for a hefty price. It could only work in a regime where there was strict control over the internet and over the population. Beautifully Orwellian. The Ministry of Truth. Turning yourself into an unperson. Neat.

‘So you think Suzhou Dragon has had itself whitewashed?'

‘I have my suspicions.'

‘You'd have to be pretty worried about something to go to those lengths.'

‘Yep.'

‘Anything we can do to find out what?'

‘Leave it with me. Are you around for a while? Not going away anywhere?'

‘No. Why?'

‘I've got to be in Perth by tomorrow night. A training course with the SAS at Swanbourne Barracks.'

‘I won't ask.'

‘Best not.' He severed the connection.

Cato felt the first stirrings of hope that he might finally be getting closer to the truth behind the Tan murders.

It was on the radio news as Hutchens headed back down the freeway. As a result of recent publicity surrounding the Hillsview Hostel Inquiry, police had received an anonymous tip-off in connection to a related missing persons case dating back to 1997. They were now scouring bushland in an area of John Forrest National Park near Mundaring.

‘Mundine. Has to be,' he muttered to himself.

His phone buzzed. A text from the devil himself.

good show 2day

Hutchens didn't reply. Another followed.

wheres the family?

He didn't bite.

X marks the spot

So he did know what became of Sinclair. He hadn't been bluffing.

catch you later then

The bastard must be on one of those unlimited SMS plans. He resisted the temptation to text back –
get a fucking life, weirdo.
The way things were going, Mundine might just do that.

Things moved quickly after that. Within an hour of getting back to Fremantle he got a call from Major Crime. DI Pavlou no less.

‘There's signs of old earth disturbance at the spot the tip-off gave us. We'll be bringing in the cadaver dogs and GPR.' Ground penetrating radar. He detected genuine sympathy in Pavlou's voice. ‘We'll probably want to speak to you soon, Mick. Maybe tomorrow, on the record, to set the ball rolling.'

‘No worries,' he said.

He felt the first jolt just after he put the phone down. He'd thought it might be static or something. Or indigestion from the Thai lunch. Another across his chest, his arm and shoulders numb, everything tight. He felt hot. Nauseous. He sank to his knees. Jesus, he thought. This is it.