Bad Seed (44 page)

The call from Driscoll came just after the weather. ‘Garrotted.' That probably would point towards foul play then. ‘Did we do that?'

‘We' meaning Cato. He didn't want to dwell on the notion of lightning striking twice. Chinese Whispers really was the deadliest game he'd come across, except maybe Russian Roulette. ‘He wouldn't have been without pre-existing enemies,' Cato said.

‘No,' conceded Driscoll. ‘But it's a bit of a coincidence, eh?'

‘It is,' Cato agreed. He felt sick.

Late yesterday, on his personal laptop, Cato had done a few google searches of Phoebe Li and put together a Word document of thoughts and queries which he'd emailed to himself marking it ‘Personal – Safety'. The document had speculated on Guido's tip-off about Phoebe and Yu Guangming and possible involvement in the tangled Shanghai land deal. Was she in with Yu and looking to secretly profit from her father's vastly over-priced buyout of
Cambridge Gardens? In the Word document he'd included a note to himself to follow up with Guido on a few more details. So was Cato now next in line?

Meanwhile on his office desktop computer he'd sent a query to Chris Thornton asking him to look into Des O'Neill and, in particular, the story of the Lake Grace farmer who'd killed himself and his wife in a murder-suicide. It seemed plausible. Of course Cato would be interested in angles where blood had been spilt. But he had his answer now. His personal laptop was the one that was hacked and Guido Caletti had paid the price.

‘Omelettes and eggs, mate,' said Driscoll. ‘Don't fret on it. He's bound to have done bad things in his life to have earned his reputation. It's karma.'

‘Thanks,' said Cato. ‘I feel better. So, what now?'

‘You know those big plastic neck braces they use when you've got whiplash? Maybe you should invest?'

They agreed not to talk any further on the phone now. Odds on, the hacking capacity extended to that too so they'd have to keep it brief and vague from here on in. They'd meet at the end of the day, after Driscoll had finished his training course. He was due to fly out on an early morning red-eye the next day. He couldn't say where.

Cato ended the call and parked near the Roundhouse for the walk back down High Street to the office. He looked up at Lara Sumich's apartment, the For Sale sign in the window. The world moves on. What did any of this prove? Yes, his personal laptop was probably in the grip of the cyber dragons and their evil mistress must be Phoebe Li but unless they could entice Phoebe over here none of this was worthwhile. Even then she'd probably pull a few strings and skip the country. He recalled a quote, often cited by his father, when he was encouraging Cato in his school studies, particularly the dreaded Maths. It was by the cellist, Pablo Casals, to the effect of ‘the situation is hopeless, we must now take the next step'.

First things first, maybe that plastic neck brace.

Hutchens was having his drip changed when Marjorie phoned him. David Mundine didn't get bail as they'd feared but he'd walked free anyway. The private contractor providing prisoner escort duties managed to lose him in transit between Hakea and the magistrate's court on the fourth floor of the Murray Street justice complex. The relaxed and diffident young driver, a recent recruit on a starting wage of just over seventeen dollars an hour after tax, was pretty confident they had him when they entered the court building. But then it all got a bit crowded and busy, and confusing. Sorry.

‘Fuck,' said Hutchens.

Marjorie agreed.

It wasn't the first time this mob had mislaid their charges and it probably wouldn't be the last. This was the same company earmarked to provide security at the reopened refugee detention facilities in the resurrected Pacific Solution gulag. At this rate the little munchkins would be scurrying all over Nauru like rabbits in a carrot patch. That at least offered some chink of light to those blighted souls who would come across the seas, our boundless plains to share. But it had put a real damper on Mick Hutchens' day.

‘Enough is enough.' He turned to the nurse changing his drip. ‘Can you get that tube out of the back of my hand? I need to be away.'

‘Not without a doctor's say-so.'

‘Get the doctor, get the paperwork. Now please.'

He wasn't being rude, just assertive.

It took a bit more wrangling and humming and hah-ing but an hour later Marjorie picked him up in the Kia and they were gone.

He dragged a clean T-shirt over his bruised head while she drove. ‘How's Bill?'

‘He'll make it. The bullet missed most of the important bits and they'll give him a colostomy bag to replace the rest. He's always been a fit old thing. Strong as an ox.'

‘That's great, angel. You got Melanie sorted?'

‘Yep. I put her on a plane to Cairns.'

‘Good one, love. Got the gun?'

‘Glovebox.'

‘Right, let's go and find the bastard.'

They wouldn't have to look far. Mundine was two cars behind them on his scooter.

Cato had just made himself a coffee when Chris Thornton swung by.

‘Got you that stuff.'

‘What?'

Thornton flicked his fingers towards Cato's computer. ‘That O'Neill bloke. I sent you an email.'

‘Cheers, thanks for that.'

‘Not going to open it then?'

How could Cato tell him it was most likely a waste of time, an experiment, and Thornton's task had been the placebo. O'Neill wasn't the person-of-interest, Phoebe was. ‘I'll get on to it soon. Got a couple of urgent matters.'

‘No worries.'

Cato thanked him again.

‘You already did that.' He skulked off.

Cato rang DI Pavlou.

‘Bit busy right now, Philip. Is it about the job?'

‘Yes,' he lied. No point in having the phone put down on him immediately.

‘Chuck me an email and your name's in the hat. I understand you've got a funeral. Sorry to hear it. This Caletti thing is going to run and run so don't hold your breath on a quick recruitment process. Could take a few weeks.'

He assured her that was no problem. ‘Any ideas who's behind it?' The interest wasn't feigned, it was deadly serious.

‘The garrotte was a bit special. We're thinking Eastern States.'

Cato whistled appreciatively. ‘Nice. Underbelly stuff then, you reckon?'

‘Open mind. As ever.'

‘CCTV?'

She indulged him further, she must really want him on her team. ‘A drunk, a canoodling couple, a young bloke we've identified as a staff member, and a Johnny No-Mates who went in the brothel down the road. The young staffer is in for questioning and the others are being followed up.' Muffled voices in the background. ‘Gotta go. Bang that email through.'

Cato was happy to leave it at that.

First they drove past Mundine's Jolimont flat. Police were already there looking for him. They parked up the street and watched for a while. Nothing doing. They went along to J. B. O'Reilly's. Marjorie stayed behind the wheel ready for a quick getaway while Hutchens looked inside. Dermot the barman was there.

‘Sure and you've been in the wars. What can I be doing for ye, sir?'

‘Your mate been in?' growled Hutchens.

‘Last I heard he was in the slammer and good riddance. Never paid me a cent, the bastard.'

‘It was my fucking money.'

Dermot turned to the optics. ‘A Jamesons, sir. On the house.'

Hutchens necked it. ‘If you see him, tell him I'm looking for him.'

He slammed the glass on the counter and departed.

‘You're welcome,' muttered Dermot.

Mundine emerged from the toilets as the Kia screeched out of the car park. He slapped a wad of notes on the counter. ‘Here's your damn money.'

‘Looks like everyone forgot to take their happy pills this morning.' Dermot folded the money and put it in his wallet. ‘Give the grumpy old tosser a kick from me.'

Cato needed to settle down. So Guido was dead; the man courted danger by his chosen lifestyle, he kept bad company. His death may or may not be coincidence, may or may not be Cato's fault. Either way he had embarked on a strategy and stage one seemed to have
produced results; it seemed he was probably being monitored via his personal laptop. He and Driscoll had agreed that stage two was about upping the ante. Given that stage one had possibly elicited a murder it was difficult to see how you could up the ante without upping the body count. The phone call, the bugged dinner conversation.

See, Dad? You were wrong. Nothing bad happened to Phil in China. He came home safe.

Why wouldn't he?

Something tugged at his memory. One of Mandy's older kids, being antisocial and playing on his laptop at the dinner table. If it was possible for pervs to hack into people's laptop cameras and watch them getting undressed, presumably it was also feasible to monitor a distant conversation that way? Particularly some cyber super-nerd from Unit blah-blah of the People's Liberation Army.

You had a premonition of doom. Don't you remember?

That'll teach you to listen to a silly old bugger like me.

Was that what upping the ante entailed? They'd slaughtered a whole family before. No reason why they wouldn't do it again.

He scrolled through his mobile contact list, located the number, then used his office phone to make the call.

‘Hi, it's me.'

‘This is a nice surprise.' Sharon Wang's voice curled around his senses like a cat around his ankles after a long day of solitude.

‘What's new?'

‘Um, let me see. I'm back in Beijing and the smog is at factor five today. That means don't go out without a lead suit and scuba breathing tanks. I've got a ton of reports to read and statistics to digest. And a disciplinary hearing this arvo at two.'

‘Ah.'

‘How about you, when are you coming to visit me in China? There's a plane from Perth every day at eight thirty. I've checked. There's also afternoon and evening flights.'