Bad Seed (36 page)

‘How's Mick?'

DI Jimmy Spittle was tall and lean with a greying buzz cut. He was the same vintage as Hutchens, pushing fifty, but looked ten years younger. A product of regular sport and careful diet. He was a genial enough bloke and didn't seem to warrant Hutchens' unkind assessment of ‘wanker'. Maybe that was Hutchens' default position on humanity in general and why he was in so much trouble right now.

‘Bearing up,' said Cato.

‘Good to hear. So what do you need from me?'

A helpful manager who showed concern for his colleagues. It was a good start.

‘We offloaded some jobs to Murdoch last week. Not a lot has come in since then. I think the bad weather helps.'

‘So?'

‘Some leeway on the reporting and stats timetable.' If Hutchens' crop of misfortunes served as an excuse to lift the administrative
burden that dogged modern policing then it would all have been worthwhile.

‘No worries,' said Spittle.

‘Can I speak to you in confidence, boss?'

‘Sure.'

Cato told him about Hutchens, the Inquiry, and about David Mundine. While it wasn't exactly part of his caseload, he wanted to be able to do whatever it took to watch his boss's back. A free-ish rein would be nice.

Spittle appraised him, resting his chin on steepled hands. ‘Keep me in the picture,' he said. ‘If it becomes too much of a problem I'll jerk your leash.' Cato thanked him and stood to go. ‘Sandra Pavlou tells me she's got her eye on you. I can see why, now. That kind of loyalty and honesty is in short supply these days.'

Cato found himself unaccountably blushing.

Spittle smiled. ‘Does Mick know you're contemplating pastures new?'

David Mundine hadn't driven in over a year. His mum's Datsun stank of her cigarettes and old woman pong. It whined like a needy junkie whenever he put his foot down. At this rate he wouldn't make Augusta before dark. Then he'd have fucking kangaroos to worry about. He'd avoided the freeway and Forrest Highway and stuck to the old coast road for as long as possible, figuring any police interest would focus first on the fastest road south. He was just past the Dawesville Cut, south of Canalsville, and he knew there was a roadhouse not far away. He remembered the first time he'd gone there. He was eight and his mum had gone to pay for the petrol and buy some Chiko rolls and choc milk. Paulie had snatched the opportunity while she was away to make David rub his dick. Mundine felt himself get hard at the memory. He'd learned to control his self-disgust.

He pulled into Dawesville roadhouse, in the same parking space they always used. The one Paulie liked, just around the corner out of sight. He didn't need fuel, he'd filled up back in the metro area
and was good now until at least Margaret River. He pulled the peak of his baseball cap down low, ducked his head and entered the shop. The place was empty, struggling for business with all the traffic now going down the new road. He knew where the cameras were, high on the wall, and made sure they wouldn't get a good look at him. He bought a Chiko roll and a choc chill for old time's sake and gave the old slapper a wink on the way out. His hard-on wouldn't go away.

He went into the toilets and jerked it off.

By mid-afternoon they located Mundine's scooter. It was parked near East Perth railway station. From there you could take buses or trains down south to Bunbury and then connections on to Augusta. Thornton and Hassan checked with the various ticket sellers and took a look at the CCTV footage. Two hours later they still had no fix on him. Colleagues down south had been alerted to wait at bus and train stops along the way to intercept arriving passengers or, if he'd already arrived earlier, to try and pick up his trail. The Augusta desk sergeant said that day's bus had already arrived and the passengers dispersed. If Mundine was on it they weren't any the wiser, so far. Cato asked them to park a car outside the Couchers' home.

‘That's not as simple as it sounds, mate.'

‘Why?'

‘They're in East Augusta, over the river. The road in there is a big detour back through the bush. It's a couple of hundred metres swim but we're talking fifty-odd kilometres by road.'

‘So do it anyway,' said Cato. ‘Please.'

‘Sure, but it's bucketing down here. If your mate's on public transport he's going to have a long wet walk unless he knows somebody with a boat or can hitch a ride.'

‘I'm sure it wouldn't be beyond him.'

The sergeant blew out a breath and said okay. ‘By the sound of it he'll fit right in over in East Augusta. Real duelling banjos country, it is.'

Hutchens had checked out of hospital by noon and phoned a yachting mate. He still felt pretty shaky and was warned by the doctor to try to relax and avoid stress over the coming week ahead of further tests. The stents were still settling in and he was on heavy-duty blood-thinning medication to minimise the chance of clotting. Don't bleed, they'd said. You might never stop.

‘Absolutely!' He'd beamed at the specialist on his way out, feeling the weight of Deb Hassan's Glock in his jacket pocket.

The yachting mate had more money than sense. He also had a Cessna. They were on the approach to the Augusta airstrip now, south of the town on the way to the Cape Leeuwin lighthouse. The weather was atrocious and the plane was bobbing around like a paper kite in the gale. It was a white-knuckle landing and Hutchens thought he felt his stents popping. Huge black clouds had robbed the place of any remaining daylight.

‘I owe you one, Baz.' They shook hands and the plane taxied and took off again. By arrangement with another yachting mate who kept a holiday mansion down here at Flinders Bay, a car had been left at the airstrip for him. It was a Prado and the keys were in the ignition. It was that kind of town.

He tried phoning Marjorie but there was no answer. Odds on, she couldn't get a signal. He also tried the landline but all he heard was crackles and hisses. The storm must have brought the lines down. Why did her bloody folks have to live on the wrong side of the river? And the wrong side of the century come to that. There was a missed call and a message from Cato. He ignored them. The rain was almost horizontal and the streets empty as he drove through town. On the far side of the Blackwood a few lights twinkled from the East Augusta settlement. Marjorie and Melanie were over there. Maybe Mundine was too.

Cato realised as soon as he got Chris Thornton's update that things had just got a whole lot worse. A series of phone calls and emails had tracked down a name for the tutor on the ‘Let's Get Digital!' IT course that David Mundine signed up for back in 2003: Paul Scott
Morrison, who had now firmed as the most likely candidate for Tricia Mundine's abusive and predatory ex-boyfriend. The helpful course coordinator at Maylands community centre had even dug out the original brochure, with Morrison's photo on it. The one David Mundine must have seen. Within eighteen months Morrison would die in a house fire in Bassendean, just up the road from Maylands. They now had the post-mortem report on that incident too. Morrison's charred body showed signs of significant pre-fire injuries. It was evident that he had been tortured first.

Hutchens had discharged himself from hospital and wasn't returning Cato's calls. He wasn't at home, they'd checked. All the signs were that he too, like Mundine, was headed south to Augusta. It was now early evening. The wind had picked up. The weather from down south was coming this way. Cato feared the worst, and dealing with the worst was a significant resource issue. He phoned DI Spittle and brought him up to speed.

‘You're thinking Tactical Response Group?'

Cato was.

‘Unless we put them on a plane now they're not going to get down there for at least three hours, maybe four in these conditions.'

Cato didn't fill the silence.

‘We'll look like complete fuckwits if this is a false alarm.'

‘And worse if it isn't,' said Cato.

A few long moments more. ‘I'll fix it,' said Spittle. ‘Get this wrong and there'll be no hiding place for you, not even Stock Squad.' There was the sound of directives being issued behind a muffled mouthpiece. ‘I assume you'll be hitching a ride with the Ninjas?'

Cato confirmed he would.

Mundine had seen the paddy wagon a mile off. The dozy bastard hadn't made any attempt to be discrete, or maybe that was the point. He'd doused the Datsun headlights and rolled into the driveway of an empty holiday home a few hundred metres up the lane. Rain pounded the roof. He reclined the seat and watched and waited.

He checked his phone. No signal. No surprise, he was with
fucking Vodaphone and they didn't service Swampsville. Mundine rummaged through his backpack and felt the satisfying clank and weight of the tools. He disentangled the bottle of shiraz from the rope and dragged it out for a swig.

Some headlights appeared, turning off the main road and into the settlement. Mundine slid lower in his seat as the car, one of those big rich-dick 4WDs rocked past through the puddles. It rolled up to the police car and stopped. The driver got out. It was Mr H.

Mundine smiled. This was going to be even more fun than he thought.